I am from lace tablecloths,
from Betty Crocker brownies and frosty wedding cakes.
I am from the hard-baked brick house,
cuddling comfort,
crackling, roasted apples by the fireplace.
I am from fragile lilac bushes,
stretching baby limbs towards the sun,
the gentle touch of the algae in the Black Sea.

I am from pig slaughter in December
and working hard for everything we’ve got,
from Mihaela and Vasile and Stefan.
I am from the fishing trips dad and I used to go on
and his favorite spot by the waterfall.
From Stop reading or you’ll ruin your eyes!
and We all have to do our part!

I am from ancient Orthodox saints
watching over us from glossy icons,
from namesakes and godparents.
I am from Medgidia
and thousands of years of Roman conquerors,
from stuffed cabbage leaves and roasted lamb.

From the delicate way my Grandpa’s hands
carried me home from the train station,
cruel winter winds biting his cheeks
flushed with joy,
his first grandchild, no bigger than a milk bottle.

I am from scrapbooks,
old black and white photographs
which I am afraid to make copies of because
they are as old and as fragile as my Grands,
if only I could keep them as they are
forever small, yet bigger than life,
always by me.