I’m from days on the beach, attempting to tan my Scottish-Irish skin, but soon giving in to the calling surf.
I’m from sword fights in the basement, the clash of plastic against plastic that will determine which brother controls the video console.
I’m from firefly nights on the back porch, with creaky swings and sticky, s’more fingers.
I’m from hours at the piano, writing and playing, and days on the stage, belting ”Le Miserables” and “Joy to the World”.
I’m from the paint splattered art studio where the brushes are never clean and I never have enough paper.
I’m from afternoons at the movies, with the glow of the screen barely emitting enough light for me to tell apart my red Sour Patch Kids from the orange ones, that I despise.
I’m from the fangirl moments, when those “never ending hiatuses” end, when RWBY gets a new season, when the Doctor regenerates for the 12th time, when Steven pulls out Rose’s shield, when Bill makes a deal, and when Snape says “Always.”
I’m from the grey house with the green shutters and the gawky, lightning-struck trees surrounding it.
I’m from summers spent between shelves at the public library, with the cool AC blowing down my back, and a good book propped up on my lap.
I’m from sunny days in the scorching heat, tap tap tapping the soccer ball down the make-shift field in the side yard.
I’m that tan-attempting, sword-fighting, s’more-finger-swinging, piano-playing, messy-painting, movie-watching, fangirl-momenting, green-shutter-house-living, bookshelf-hiding, soccer-playing girl.
That’s where I’m from.