Where are you from?

I am from
my grandmother‘s gnarled hands
leading me the way through her garden,
feeding me fresh picked berries, touching my cheeks with a smile.
I am from chasing her chickens over the farm,
from small hands, learning to sew on her itchy couch.

I am from
“why is your hair so dark?”
and
“would you mind repeating your name once again?”
From
my father‘s language fading,
leaving some kind of familiar feeling -
like Prousts Madelenes bringing up something long forgotten
moving in my chest, outpacing my mind.

I am from
sitting at Hilde Domins grave in spring,
mosquitos biting my legs,
but trying to stay a bit longer
to learn that one poem by heart.
From finding home in women friendships,
their way of finding playgrounds and laughter within the words,
and from loving E-Mails over the distance.

I am from
not being able to fall asleep next to my lover
after the news of Gisele Pelicot
and having nightmares,
still
months
after.

I am from
my Oud teachers way of telling stories
while adding new strings
or sharing figs from his garden
and medlars from the turkish market next door.
From spending evening after evening barefooted on the carpets
sharing tea and heartknown melodies.