I am from corned beef,
From tinfoil trays and silicone food containers.
I am from the hole behind the radiator where the mouse resides.
I am from the smell of burnt yams when my grandpa forgets to turn off the stove.
I am from the disheveled plants in my mother’s yard, when she suddenly thought of herself as a gardener, whose long-gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.
I’m from the tradition of receiving Beyblades for Christmas and the art of living separate lives while living under the same roof and not talk about it.
From Mom and Dad, who still love each other but are now on opposite ends of the world.
I’m from going to church every Sunday of the year with my mom, from watching soccer games at the local Irish pub with my dad, from working on physics problems by myself.
I’m from “dream big!” and “the sky’s the limit” and Train’s Hey, Soul Sister playing on the radio during a nighttime drive in Auckland.
I’m from the long line of hugs and tears when we arrive at the airport and when we depart from it.
I’m from Lucile Packard Children’s Hospital in Stanford and the island of Tonga and KFC with my extended family in New Zealand.
I’m from the picture of me and my siblings posing as teapots in the snow during our first and last White Christmas.
God knows where that picture is.
