I am from pasta and lentils, from Barilla and ballet,
I am from B Street, crowded, loving, scented with old wine and new detergent.
I am from the desert, from RV trips that never ended.
I am from common sense and strength, from my mother and her mother and her mother.
I am from tears of joy and sadness, from gardens failed and successful.
I am from "she reminds me of her mother" and my grandmother's hands.
I am from long hours standing in church, from incense, from wheat, wine and oil.
I am from Cape Cod, from granola and the one bite rule.
From watching war movies and trying to knit, from the lentil year and Sarah Morton's Day.
I am from my grandparents' desk, walls of photos, jewelry boxes filled with love and the occasional gem.
From an old steel box and recipes in my grandmother's shaky hand and my mother's elegant one.
I am from a line of women who are always together, even when apart, and the line will continue through me, my cousins and shared food.