Where I am From
by Heather Newell
I am from orange and blue skies roughly framed
By domineering pioneers and treacherous fourteeners
Oh Rocky Mountain High
From crumbles of granola falling on my bicycle rolling, shifting, and pushing outdoors at all costs.
I’m from front range crusin’ the Continental Divide revealing and navigating West, always
I’m from hey, beer, wine, with every meal, you live once they said, and we’ll hike it off tomorrow.
I’m from rays of sunshine splashing in hastily on Saturday mornings –
open windows, open days, open people
3rd, 4th generation like gold, Samsonite, avalanches, marijuana, and Boulder-ites.
Weird, quirky, always there.
Give me that green chili, grandpa would proclaim, coating his burritos’ edges perfectly so no spot went untouched
I’m from the same womb that has mayor blood; Brighton builldog leadership.
Family, strength, dedication seeps in my skin.
I’m from the hands of stained coffee and burnt grilled cheese
I came back too late to be a 303 girl so I’m stuck with a 720.
Seems a bit rude for a native.
Perched in the china cabinet adjacent to the door, a family heirloom passed down from mama,
Remnants of a Colorado flag carried along to far-off places sits quietly besides grungy Tanzanian bus tickets, woo pig sooie memorabilia, and colorful Rwandan woven baskets.
Photographs of families, everywhere, across races, nations and boundaries create the mirror’s reflecting edges. I’m from here and there.
A big world, home becomes scattered.