I am from fruit cordial, from Weet-bix and sunburnt holidays at a dolphin-friendly bay.
I am from a fibro bungalow, lavender-light walls on a street named for love, heavenly jasmine punching the air in evening September showers.
I am from eucalyptus, tall and strong; from orange blossom and frangipani blooming in the backyard, competing side by side.
I am from rummy and stubbornness, from Chris and Jenny, and the best grandmother of all.
I am from memorised repeats of Fawlty Towers, and secretive books tucked under pillows .
From 'you're too honest for your own good' and 'you can be whatever you want.'
I am from no place of worship, with a fierce sense of right and wrong.
I’m from Sydney and Northern Europe, meals devoid of ethnicity, and passionfruit-drizzled pavlova.
From young newly-wed parents, the remarried grandfather who refused to know me, and the widowed grandma who loved me times a million.
I am from yellowing round-cornered photos on sticky-lined pages, contained within crinkling plastic; glossy black '70s vinyl LPs, encased in worn sleeves from another era; stories buried in chests, their keys discarded, the things that are unsaid yet somehow defining.