I am from (Bob)

I finally got around to doing this, and then nearly bottled out of actually posting it. If you want to see how these things should really be done, look at one by Jax or Merry and I’m sure Katy could do a better one too. If you fancy doing one yourself, and to see the original poem it’s modelled on here are some instructions.

I am from the cul-de-sac and the main road, from Araldite and the S-shaped skid mark I made with my trike.

I am from the hard and slippery parquet floor lit with light from the French windows.

I am from the mock orange bush hidden in blossom, the yellow daffodils on a green lawn that I tried to miss when I flew from the swing.

I am from shunning service station food and eating in the carpark from orange stacking lunchbox trays, each with a drum kit of tupperware lids and a little inkwell of tomato ketchup. From Chris and Joan and not many others.

I am from maths from Dad and cuddles from Mum and Buddy Holly tapes played in the car.

From being too southern, too spotty, too poor at sport and too clever.

I am from “You’re not getting me in that dump again”, from being washed clean under a gushing tap, from slowly, fitfully building a relationship that I sometimes stretch like elastic. From mind and heart and song and quiet.

I am from two different commuter belts, home-grown tomatoes and really short mince pies.

From the end of the holiday on the boat, Dad’s spanner slipping and smashing his glasses. From the drive home with the boat behind the car, Mum reading the signs and Dad negotiating town centre traffic by feel.

I am from home cine film free from Dad’s work showing holidays on the beach, and a photo of a happy but squashed Daddy being a bus to two sons, a daughter and a nephew pinned up next to black work words on white work paper.