Dancing and Remorse

and the softness of moss

I come from twirling batons 

and basketball sized bullfrogs that were real, 

from thick bricks of velveeta cheese and

fried, curled bologna sandwiches.

I come from the color green 

and the way it means the woods are alive.

I come from the softness of moss on the rotting tree stump, 

from the exotic trillium springing up

through the still-cold dirt on a warm spring day.

I come from beauty and conflict and love that sometimes broke 

from standing too close to the edge.

From dancing and remorse.

Photo by Eva Yang on Unsplash

I come from birthday parties 

with girly wrapping paper taped over little girl makeup 

and walking dolls that were new in the box from my mother’s mother 

who loved me with those gifts 

and who revealed on her deathbed heart-crushing secrets 

locked in the vault her whole life until they would no longer keep.

I come from an unkempt crowded kitchen with hardened eggs on plates 

piled high in the sink 

and from an urgent need to clean when someone visits 

so they wouldn’t know we were dirty.

I come from my father’s mother 

whose husband demanded sex every single day 

and after many pregnancies and five living children 

she found a way to stop the life of the last one 

because six was too many 

and she told us this story on a road trip to Branson 

where she cried from too much joy 

because Lawrence Welk was her favorite 

and the show stole her breath.

I come from my handsome, charming father 

whose work was blue collar, 

from a woodworker who could have been a master 

but instead probably drank beer while using the saw 

without care 

and cut his index finger off 

because he didn’t know how good he could be.

I come from a mother who tried to do the right thing by us 

and mostly did but sometimes didn’t 

and it didn’t matter because we knew we were so, so loved.

I come from a mother who cried 

when she was baptized in the Methodist church 

at almost sixty years old 

because it finally meant she was good.

I come from the Great Lake State of Michigan 

by way of Alcais Lorraine and Eastern Europe 

and from writers and artists and actors 

whose genes beg me to express 

and from the feeling that I’m born 

from and for greatness.

I come from tender, fatty pot roast with 

soft carrots, potatoes and onions 

on Sundays 

and from laughter and tummies full of happy.

I come from sweet chocolate cake oddly made of mayonnaise, 

and lugs of Traverse City cherries.

I come from generations 

of lovers

and achievers 

and mistake-makers 

and workers 

and creators 

who only ever did the best they could 

because that’s how life works, 

until we know how to do better.