After reading Where I'm From by George Ella Lyon, I chose a line that resonated with me the most and then created my own poem.
From the finger my grandfather lost to the auger, the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
My father was an artist. I witnessed him take his last breath on 12/17/08 at 9:40 p.m. In the spirit of mourning my father’s death, this is what I came up with:
I am from my father’s hands lost in the strokes of oily painted white mountains, from the heart he held to stop the attack, from hardened pale fingers I touched that were unfamiliar. From the shadow that moved curtains when it was over.
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