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I’m From

By Gabrielle Scelzo, age 11


i’m from a silver Barbie collection book,
From a soft, fluffy, purple, rug.

    I’m from the ponds upstate,
        all three.
From the mud-covered, olive green, Quads,
    I’m from the “crayfish” in the Poland Spring bottle.

    I’m from the Miss. Sally butter packets, served at
            Kraft Diner.
    The ones Mia and I used to swallow whole. 
From Grandma Bonnie’s broccoli casserole,
    From frozen chocolate pudding tubes.

    I’m from, “ We don’t own Con Edison, you know!”
From, “ Don’t pick up the phone!”
        From mermaid hotels,
            Called Starbucks.

    I’m from Kissey Boy with Malcolm,
        Witches with Thalia and Vera.
From shopping sprees in Long Island with Michelle,
        From Boys vs Girls with almost all of my class.

    I’m from crushes on Julien and Jake,
From Becky and Blake,
       Mimi and Emily,
    People I always wished I could be.

    I’m from full racks of ribs,
From delicious Mississippi Mud Pie
    coming straight from the Little Pie Company.

    I’m from the long, 102 page drawing,
        of princesses,
        and dragons,
    all kept in a brown, accordion folder, taped together.
                   The one,
                the only,

    I’m from the third day of 5th grade,
        When our school bus driver took us to Chinatown,
        And told us we were at school.

    I’m from big mouths,
From crazy laughs,
        From people who can’t keep their mouth shut.

    I’m from those comfy, navy blue, window seats
        On my first Continental Airlines flight,
            To the
From glistening, city, sidewalks,
        From the clear, blue waters in Paradise Island.

    I’m from “I just beat your pinball score!”
        And “Well I got the first bite!”
From “This needs to be a loaf!”
    And the creases on the cover of each and every bible.
        From turning to Luke Chapter 9 verse 13

    I’m from Lucy’s fun, warm feeling,
From my pink and white baby Eden doll.

    I’m from fried Oreos,
         and Sweet Potato Fries,
        all served at the Ninth Avenue Festival.

    I’m from the Potato Cops Of America meetings, every Friday.
That all started with my potato, Bob.

    I’m from those baby blue, netted cots
        With the small, white angel in the center. 
From the huge, thick, colorful mats,
            that separated us preschoolers from talking and staying awake.

    I’m from Mr. Roylance’s screams,    
            his yells,
From his scarlet face that we used to say was caused by
    I’m from his exploding self, his wide eyes,
            all caused by my chatter,
               and my
                 infamous giggle.

    Those albums just sat there.
Under the Disney videos,
        with lace album covers.
            They were all dressed,
but they had nowhere to go.
    Looking through the plastic covered photos,
all of the pictures were about me,
        pictures from my childhood.
     Those albums were made for me,

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