A Map of Me

This week's writing prompt was a Mad Lib of sorts.  It reads a little awkwardly in parts, but I plan on working on it a little more at some point to make it more polished.  I wanted to link up, though, since I've enjoyed reading a lot of the others.  It really made me think about how much a part of me my family truly is, and how lucky I am to have the one I do. 

A Map of Me

I am from a tattered Care Bear lovingly cherished for twenty-seven years and counting, from a tooth-shaped pillow, complete with a pocket to facilitate the bartering of tooth and coin, and from a carefully kept Fisher Price farm that my children now batter on their grandma's family room floor, opening and closing the mooing barn door.

I am from the brick colonial sandwiched between a high school without windows, a fire station, and a now-shuttered penny candy ice cream parlor, blanketing me in the value of an education, safety, and sugar.

I am from the red plaid blanket from which I learned the game of soccer, watching my brother shoot across cleat-trampled grass.

I am from the saltless waters of the Great Lakes, sending breezes through the smothering humidity of construction-filled summers.

I am from family trips to Niagara Falls, where I learned to love amusement parks on an oversized Candian ferris wheel.

From petite, curvy women, from my beloved cousins, and from Great Granny and the grandfather I never knew, except in faded photographs and grainy home movies.

I am from the unwavering optimism of my mother and unfaltering cynacism of my father, seamlessly blending into a bubbly half-full cocktail of sarcasm.

From "you gotta B-E-L-I-E-V-E" and "when you tell me not to worry about it, that's when I know to worry".

I am from the melancholy pagentry of Catholicism, practiced devoutly by my Godmother, currently searching for a parish and an epiphany, longing to reconcile my faith and my convictions.

I'm from the land of labor unions and assembly line overtime paychecks, fueled by the comfort of Vernors and the greasy familiarity of Better Made potato chips.

From my Grandma Rose admonishing me to always sleep on silk pillowcases, the way my Nan adores red shoes, and the way I think of my Pap whenever I see white stars on a blue background backing up to stoic red and white stripes.

I am from my mother's china cabinet that cradles Hummel figurines alongside my brother's kindergarten portrait of our uncle.  I am from her mantle that showcases an ever-changing photo gallery of our family.  I am from her wall, where my Uncle Jim's painting of Lockport reminds me of where our family began, even though the mitten state is the only home I've known.