Real. Fresh. Air.

I am from a stretched out interstate bordered by sharp yellow-green dust grass against hazy mountain feet.
I am from a right turn onto new blacktop, then a left turn on a dirt road, one lane under the train bridge, better hope somebody's not coming the other way. Stakes are higher now that there's a three year-old in the backseat.
I am from a hand out the window to touch the way the air has turned fresh two hundred and fifty miles from sour half-assed living, beer headaches, lonely nights of sideways couch-sitting legs curled under eyes between a book and a television.
I am from clouds that glow not city-orange but moon-white.
I am from a place where it rains just enough to tease the plants and where the smell of rain and heat lightning is hot, wet, tormented and moves east too fast.
I am from where it's so dry I have to drink two waters for every beer and where skin lotion is a survival item.

I am from a girl's bedroom with dead quiet nights and a toddler trundle bed caddy corner to where I used to sleep.
I am from wishing star light star bright on the same star I saw when I was little except now it's Grammy and grandson doing the wishing.
I am from the same sharp bright milky way through the big picture window in the upstairs bedroom, except the cottonwood has busted past the horizon and split up the stars.

I am from taking my son to the country so the world can play with him every once in a while.

I am from strong sunlight, no blinds, no neighbors, no need.
I am from a solar-powered coffee maker and power tools always chomping at some part of the house or another.
I am from loose-fitting work clothes and boots caked with dirt and sawdust and gloves with holes in the fingers still good enough to lift two by fours.
I am from thirty second safety lessons from my father: "Use the circular saw. Don't cut off your thumb."

I am from refrigerator magnets:
"The Road to Success is Always Under Construction" and
"Good Guys Finish First" and
Roy Rogers wishing me "Happy Trails" and
James Dean looking at me and
"Peace Rocks" and
"Growing Old is Not For Sissies."

I am from a long walk up the ridge to rocks I climbed on when I was a girl and my boy scrapes his shins and elbows and comes closer to peace here than subdivision living but maybe that's me.

I am from hard grit sandstone molded by God or time but when I'm on my back

palms flat kissing the sandpaper rock

stone under fingers me under sky

it doesn't matter how it came to be

only that it makes me believe again

in my own head and heart and

sticky stubborn stuff that drives me forward through the mundane everyday.