A Rosary in the Glovebox

I am from a cracked white rosary hidden in a glovebox,
From Liquid I.V. and PG Tips brewed strong before dawn.
I am from Buffalo winters that bite like old truths,
Grim, loyal, and lined with snow-thick silence.
I am from the Joshua trees — limbs reaching like prayers,
Twisted and ancient, surviving where nothing should.

I’m from late-night letter-writing and apology casseroles,
From Grandma Linda’s side-eye and my father’s stubborn jaw.
I’m from the ones who carry too much and speak too little,
From “get a grip” and “don’t be dramatic.”

I’m from incense smoke and Sunday obligation,
Crucifix bruises on my chest and a yearning for something holier than shame.
I’m from Buffalo grit and Puerto Rican sun,
From rice and beans served on a fold-out table,
And Sunday sauce that forgives everything.

From the little girl who gave out band-aids to dolls and stray dogs,
The 24-year-old baby nurse who passed meds and poetry on the same shift,
The queer nurse who walks beside the addicted, the incarcerated, the discarded.
I am from Polaroids tucked in recovery journals,
Mementos layered between art therapy collages and discharge instructions,
A library of ghosts, grit, and grace I carry into every healing space.

Author’s Note for A Rosary in the Glovebox

This piece is written in the tradition of the “I Am From” poem, a format originally inspired by the work of writer George Ella Lyon and shared widely for reflective, autobiographical writing. It began as a school assignment — one that asked me to map out where I’m from, not just geographically, but emotionally, culturally, spiritually. I found myself peeling back layers I hadn’t touched in years: childhood rituals, inherited grief, small acts of resistance, and the quiet tenderness that survived beneath all of it. What emerged was a deeply personal piece that bridges Buffalo winters and Puerto Rican sun, Joshua Trees, rosaries and recovery, casseroles and crucifixes, and the many versions of myself I’ve been — nurse, queer woman, ghost-tender, granddaughter, guide.

Though it started in the classroom, I’ve chosen to publish it here because I believe in the sacredness of naming your origin story on your own terms.

This is mine.