I am from chocolate chip cookies baked in my grandmother's kitchen; from the lemony freshness of Pine Sol and the rustic scent of my Grandfather's cologne.
I am from the quiet library of my mother's soothing voice; velvet against my skin.
I am from the fragrant rose bushes and the healing rosemary bushes whose scent forever rests on the back of my tongue.
I am from the tarot cards and birthmarks, form Nanitha Beatriz, great grandmother of so many, and Beatrice my mother of one, and the Wellman's whose empire in business is now nothing more than a quiet memory to enjoy in retirement .
I am from the musicians of instruments and the singers of passion.
From pasijuate and ay que chula mamacita.
I am from a caring Episcopal Church, yet family views are split in two because of the words it announces and the sins it commits.
I am from Texas, America, Mexico, Ireland, England, and South America; from tacos and seafood.
From the grandmother who had to quit school in eighth grade to pick the fields to support her family, yet going back to high school later and graduating, to my mother who was newly divorced supporting me as a baby on $4.25 an hour, the government refusing to help with food or housing.
I am from a large album hidden on the top shelf of the closet filled with memories of faraway places and news clippings of the time.