Where I'm From

When people ask me where I’m from,
I always start by replying “that’s a long story”.
But that’s not true, is it? It never really is.
What we really mean is
“I’ve told this story a hundred times,
         don’t make me say it again.”
This isn’t that story. This is the true story.
Well, it’s not much of a story.

I was born in a little blue house
(Painted Robin’s-Egg blue, my mother always said)
With a red door and a white picket fence and a Volvo in the driveway.
I was born on a futon in the living room, with my family crowded around.
I was born on a cold day in February, with the snow coming down.

I’ve moved a few times in my life:
When my grandmother died, we moved to Florida,
To Miami, to take care of her husband.

I lived in a little white house
On the side of a lake,
With an old wooden boardwalk and an old wooden fence and a tired old driveway.
Well, nothing down there was really very old, not since Andrew in ‘92.
But it all felt old, bleached by the sun, dry and decrepit.

I have mixed feelings about living in Florida.
While I lived there, I only wanted to get away.
Once I escaped, I started thinking about going back.

In a way, I’ve always been going back,
Back to Florida (where my mother was born),
Back to Michigan (where I was born),
One day I’ll go back to Scotland and Ireland, where my ancestors came from.
Or I’ll go back to the land, and live in the mountains somewhere,
Or I’ll go back to the sea, and live in a little cottage on the side of a cliff.

And one day, I’ll go back to God,
Back to ash, back to dust,
Back to earth.
Back to the dark.
I wonder where I’ll go then?