Writing as part of
Mama Kat's Writing Workshop
WHERE I’M FROM
I am from Sunday bus rides to my Grandparents house in Sunday best with boredom Sunday smiles, from factor 50 sun cream yet still I burned and stationery fetishes for pencils, pens and the like.
I am from the street that Nelson named, from red brick warmth and sparkling window panes. From my very own stripy room filled with books, dreams and the luscious Ethan Hawke pinned in place. The sound of laughter, the smell of cake, the sight of family and the taste of melted chocolate and home made bubbling fudge.
I am from the purple clustered heather, the Bronte wilderness of rolling moors harsh with barren beauty, blustery with high up winds, untidy hair, pink cheeks.
I am from Christmas Eve presents tauntingly laying under the tree and finding strength in laughter even when hearts do break, from Lorna but not the one of the Doones and the Carters of the Village and the Rhodes’ of the Den.
I am from blurred vision, pathetic eyes yet pretty spectacles. From size six feet from the women on my mother’s side and their love of shoes which clashes with the thriftiness of the men on my father’s side.
From reaching for dreams, aspiring to be something better than I am and not eating too much raw cake mix when I am licking the chocolate covered spoon.
I am from Henry’s Church, formed of England whether right or wrong. Lapse, undecided, guilty, longing for that peace but unwilling to mix faith with the restrictions of religion and the damage caused in its name. I am from a belief in Angels, choosing them as my guidance and living life as Gabriel would want.
I’m from a lineage of Yorkies, the White Rose being the flower of my birth, from a long line of Fredericks and an ancestry that is something I have yet to discover beyond my father’s father’s father. I am from mince pies at Christmas made every year without fail and Maltesers and Toblerone and arctic roll.
From the Uncle who when sitting in his pram with sweets was accosted by the farm yard pig who took a fancy, grabbed a little arm and took off as fast as little trotters and wheels would allow, no long term damage though other than the story frequently told, and the Grandfather of the Village who grow in his allotment, who was quiet and brusque and who met me but I not him.
I am from suitcases stored and filled with albums stuffed with photos, walls covered and surfaces littered with frames and treasures. Souvenirs from visits, vacations and occasions tell the story of this is me, this is us, that was them. Life, lives that have been lived documented, told through smiling fuzzy random snaps, Snaps so precious as they hold time at a stand still while its parallel charges forward evolving history into anecdotes and sighs.
I am from love, laughter and longing. :) xx
