I am from paintbrushes, from Crayola and Pringles.

I am from the yellow walls, bright, smooth.

I am from the blooming orchids, the silver lining of the crescent moon.

I am from joyous Christmas dinners and dark brown eyes, from Fanly and Alan and Paulina.

I am from the beautiful works created by an artistic mind and the grease from elbows.

From slugs devouring my brain and exploding rice cookers.

I am from above, a peaceful utopia flowing through the clouds, awaiting for my return home.

I am from Hong Kong, sweet milk tea, soft egg tarts.

From the fresh, gentle breeze on Alaskan waters, the ice dotting the ocean like a field of flowers, and the rushing, foamy Niagara Falls, shining in all the colours of the rainbow.

I am from golden boxes forever passed down from head to head, the key to my past held in my hands.