Where I’m From

I’m from eyes, from refresh and proparacaine.

I’m from the office in Edina to the office in Duluth years of happiness and keep the glass half full that my dad always told me when I was upset.

I’m from the mask that hangs in the living room.

I’m from a laid back religious background and being vegetarian on Tuesday’s. I’m from the Sunday school I attended until middle school.

I’m from the bicycle accident that killed one of my friends from that Sunday School.

I’m from Edina, Minnesota, the land of the so-called cake eaters

I’m from paneer and tikka from the golf club in India every visit.

I’m from the photograph that hangs over my bed, the picture of a street in London, the double-decker red bus.

I’m from the black piano that welcomes me when I’m upset, the red cover we put over it when it’s not touched during the busy school year.

I’m from the piano teacher who taught me how to play those very keys, the countless times I’ve been screamed at.

I’m from chivra and tradition, from Dadi and Dada. I’m from the golf cart we drive when we visit them in Florida.

I’m from the school conversations and travel, not understanding the magnitude of the experiences I had. From 7 years of hard work makes 70

I’m from acting, watching numerous plays in London, usually a different one each night.

From the Parkinsons my grandfather fights through, the golf addiction of my nana, that makes him want to call me weekly about his new swing.

I’m from the times he taught me how to ride a bike

I’m from the catch me and my dad played in the backyard

I’m from the football games at recess. I’m from the photo album my sister made for mother’s’ day

I’m from the family dinners,

I’m from the people I have met, the memories I have forgotten, but eventually will remember.

Drums

Walking on a Bluebird Day

// Emilia Hoppe

Here the sky awakens from its fourteen hour slumber, ultrabright Dodger blue, snow screeches like styrofoam beneath my boots, wind tickles the skin yawning over my right cheekbone, sunspots pulse out of the sky in long-exposure photographs. My thumb huddles in the warm room of my palm, clouds and cloudy exhalations flee from daylight, red watermelon melts into the numb tips of my toes, as tree branches sprawl out like so many forlorn fingers raised in supplication. I feel not cold so much as fresh-faced and wide-eyed-searching the sky for signs of Bluebird. But he is erased by the blueness of the sky and so instead, here is solitary Cardinal, releasing a desperately melancholy shriek in mourning.