Once again, with feeling

OK, now this time I did follow the rules.

I am from the bookshelf, from Cheerios and Vim.
I am from the second floor, from laughter and tickles.
I am from the tulip bed, from roses warmed by the afternoon sun, from the sleepy buzzing of bees.
I am from cupcakes for holidays and brown hair, from Seweryna and Krystyna and the Ebels.
I am from praising one's own cooking at parties and folding hands on your lap.
From your face will freeze that way and a cherry tree will grow in your stomach.
I am from crowded churches and shouted amens. From the smell of incense and the chink of money on the collection tray.
I'm from Warsaw and Toronto, from potato pancakes and red wine.
From the young mother leaving a suitcase with almost all she had in the world on a streetcar that goes round and round the town, the suitcase that came back with the driver on the next pass, and the cousin who dumped a whole bathtub of water on the kitchen floor in an effort to clean up.
I am from faded sepia photographs of ladies in stiff necked gowns artfully arranged on chairs in a suburban wood, precious pictures and mementos lost in two wars and countless moves until all that was left were words.