I am Naomi

From Japanese relatives

Who refuse to call me anything but Isla-chan,

Out of respect and stubbornness.

I am Isla 

A middle-first name born to confuse everyone.

And I am a million other nicknames that come from years of jokes and lunch tables.

I am from a cherry-red house on top of the hill,

And from a stone apartment building,

And now from wooden floors,

Gray carpet.

A table made from a tree cut by my Dad’s Dad.

My little room that is a puzzle of a bed and a desk and bookshelves.

I am from a coin-silver slide rescued from a friend’s backyard.

From swings that rock a little more every time we use them.

From a fire ring with stones my Dad carried in.

From my Mom’s garden that just holds onto the steep hill.

From a wall of rocks dotted with fern soup and milkweed beds for gnomes.

From a forest sprinkled with forts and fairy houses and hand-built paths.

I am from lighting candles for eight days in a row and watching them melt all night long.

From way too much applesauce for our latkes.

I am from everyone squished into a house for Thanksgiving,

The air thick with conversation and crowded with so many people that my cheeks get rosy.

I am from reading the questions every year at Passover 

Since I was small enough to need pillows to reach the table.

I am from naming our Christmas tree over and over 

Sir Bubblegum Machine

And Priscilla

And Mr. Bubbles

Because my siblings and I can’t agree.

I am from New Year's parties with raclette and fondue and skiing up Mount Tom.

I am from the rice cooker with faded pink flowers on the side.

And chopsticks that take up a whole section of the silverware drawer.

From Dad’s pizza,

My Mom’s curry

From potato pancakes made from

Purple.

Yellow.

Orange.

From chocolate chip pancakes and waffles for breakfast.

And from a chocolate-chocolate-chocolate cake for every birthday.

I am from hard work,

From trying new things,

From truth and honesty,

And from not giving up.

I am from Hawaii every two years with Robert and Ginny and their dried bananas, 

picked from the back yard, 

dusted with cinamon from the neighbor.

I am from Maine and lobsters on a grassy hill and sitting on docks with fishing poles while we point out the best boats.

I am from a cross-country road trip,

With all of us piled in a van, drawing pictures until we ran out of paper.

I am from skiing until my legs could give out,

Dancing across the perfectly ridged snow.

From mountain biking in a new place every weekend, 

trying to push my burning legs even harder.

From hiking and springing over roots and playing the game of how long can you go without touching the ground?

From scrambling up onto rocks with my siblings, conquering boulders.

From swimming in the river all summer.

I am from reading 

Curled up in a corner, 

From flipping a book open when there’s a free moment.

From tapping at a keyboard and writing in a notebook whenever I come up with an idea.

From drawing out people and plants and little images for every occasion.

From knitting hands taught by my Nona’s guidance,

From tightly sewn stitches striving to be like hers.

I am from twirling in meadows of rippling grass,

From ice cream at feast and field,

That stained my mouth with chocolate.

From getting to the top of another mountain.

From using a solar oven to make s’mores.

I am from Halloween parades.

From snow forts built in backyards.

From endless mischief and mayhem.

From so many summer days at the pond.

From adventures in my best friend’s woods.

I am from skiing with my friends,

From whispering at sleepovers.

From the pizza we made on her counter.

From the fortune tellers at Thanksgiving.

From promises that we make on benches at the tops of mountains.

I am from remote learning and hybrid learning and learning with masks.

I am from adding a tile to the ramp at school, continuing the tradition started by my Nona.

I am from Oreo, who lives forever in our hearts.

I am from making speeches about our graduation.

From picking out photos to show what our class did in an entire year in five minutes.

I am from the Green Mountains:

Dirt roads

Rolling forests

Creased black and white photos soaked in history.

Leaf peepers

And the leaves that they come to peep at.

From snow days when the bare tree branches hang low because of the snow.

From Vermont.

From Woodstock.

From home.