Write a poem. You can do it. It's easy.
Don't believe me? Here's a template.
I first tackled the exercise on an old blog almost three years ago. For some reason, I was thinking about the poem in the shower this morning. I'm reposting here.
Note: You may be interested in knowing, if you get to the last line, that Great Aunt Sonia has since passed. So too have our secrets.
Where I'm From
I am from Cookie Monster sweatshirts, shrugged on past bedtime. I'm from Dairy Queen and a station wagon.
I am from the chain-linked smell of gasoline and grass clippings. I am from dandelion seeds, yellow weeds and petals of "he loves me not." I'm from lilacs for mom on the kitchen table.
I am from Marlboro Reds by the carton, by the day; I'm from them living while I sleep.
I'm from Faith, Hope and Wisdom, Russian sisters in translation. I'm from pampered grudges with skin soft from attention. I'm from funereal reunions.
I'm from shhhhhh and daddy's sleeping.
I'm from crimson carpets and Sabbath inattention. I'm from kneeling in a straight line.
I'm from the USA. Hot dogs and pierogies.
I'm from the #6 Combination Platter at Hong Kong Kitchen, from tiny fingers on a teacup with no handle, and an empty space in the booth.
I am from Great Aunt Sonia's head, where all our cramped secrets will die because nobody wants them.
Where are you from?