I am from the back room of a winery, running through the seamless ailes of wine tanks,

helping my father put labels on wine bottles.

I am from nights, watching through the dining room window,

to hear his truck blaring truck from across the open field.

I am from under the hood of the ‘47 pick-up I used to ponder. 

What people used to think of a rust pile, shined, I held as my treasure.

I am from the track, converting breathes into miles, 

to see the results on a stopwatch, memorizing that feeling of accomplishment.

Now, I am the one coming home after hours,

watching over the water, waiting for someone to be saved.

Now, I am the one making the noise across the open field,

rushing to get home to greet my mother, just to go to sleep and start all over.

Now, I am the one holding the stop watch, writing down every mile split,

hearing the footsteps across the track as I yell ¨stay strong ̈.

Now, I am the one trying to find that same ‘47 pick-up my father sold,

to reinvigorate my life as an adult.