Sugar Hollow

I am from granny smith, pink lady, and golden delicious.

Where the mountains stretch wide in hazy blue semi-circles.

I am from the dip in the valley.

From dirt roads that turn into chunky gravel pieces,

glued together in gasoline-stained asphalt.

I am from the place people only pass through to get to their destination.

The Friday night lights are the talk of the weekend

and 10 minutes is all it takes to get from one side to the other.

But more specifically, I am from the street that sounds like Tinkerbell named it.

From the sweet smell of cigar smoke on damp mornings.

I’m from garden dirt under mom’s fingernails

and mechanical oil on the calloused palms of dad and grandpa.

From "bless your heart."

with a “how’s your grandma?” attached to it.

And from "I’ll see you Sunday morning."

I’m from padded paws tapping hardwood floors,

smoke billowing from tall rock chimneys,

the tap water fresh from the ground.

From fresh-cut grass.

From homemade lasagna

where the Thursday morning trash cans get tipped over by curious black bears.

I’m from car exhaust snaking through the windows of the pickup.

A soft breeze carrying stickiness from the lakes,

sweetness from the fields,

tears from sweaty cheeks of snotty-nosed children.

I’m from far away

from where I’ve ended up now.

But only a three-hour drive.