This entry comes from a prompt given by the facilitator of the writers’ group I attend through the auspices of the women’s “day refuge” I go to often. The prompt was given on July 31, 2012, and it was:
I’m from here, there, everywhere, neverwhere, never there. I’m from bad luck and lost chances and death and hope gutted and fear attacked and life and second chances, the one we have to make for ourselves.
I’m from a house that isn’t mine anymore — they’ve taken out my roses, my mother’s jade plant, taken off the screen door and replaced my solid, sensible front door, unadorned as a two-by-four, with something geegawed and glassy-lighted.
But the jacaranda I put in is still there, or was a few weeks ago, and the crepe myrtle my mom put in not long after buying the house. I always loved that tree, with its wine-colored blossoms and a trunk that shed its bark to reveal silver-brown wood as smooth to the touch as satin or new love.
I’m from there, but I’m not there now, and I look forward to…something, somewhere, that fits.