Where I’m From
I am from the mud-caked running shoes with the fraying laces and worn-out tread
I am from the mud-caked running shoes with the fraying laces and worn-out tread
From once Asics, to now Brooks, anything to prevent insanity.
I am from the Johnson Funny Farm in the rural Pike countryside and Guale, the Marshes of Glynn –
Both breathtakingly beautiful,
both rechargingly relaxing,
each wildly waving Loblolly or Spartina arms.
I am from the free-range eggs
For which the (not once but twice) almost-murdered rooster mistakenly believes that he is necessary.
I’m from one side that event-izes everything elaborately, the other that celebrates every day simply.
From Haynes and Johnson.
I’m from the wake-up dog breath full-face kisses of Boo Radley the valiant nightwatch-Schnoodle
who sleeps with us because Mom’s last words were, “You take good care of these dogs!”
And sleep-tight nights with books piled high throughout the house.
From “Fasten Your Seatbelt!” and “Watch Your Speed – You Know They Hide Up Here!”
I’m from the glass house of a Southern Baptist preacher dad, the closed curtains and deadbolted doors
of a maddening mother.
I’m “Kimberly – (English) from the royal fortress meadow,”my birth meadow the Okefenokee Swamp,
cracked pecans, a churn of homemade peach ice cream.
From Georgia Lee and Eunice and Miriam, whose long-gone but lingering voices of dementia prompt
reluctant visits…. to the pantry…. to be sure…. I can still…. smell the peanut butter.
I am from these haunted corners – holding on to the jagged edges of life,
sometimes remembering, sometimes wanting to forget, always wishing their voices were still here.
– Kimberly Haynes Johnson
– Kimberly Haynes Johnson
Common Threads 