Where I Come From

by Nicolette L. Cagle, Ph.D., July 1, 2026

I come from a place where the river carried nuclear material in its mesmerizing current and the roar of cars from the nearby Tri-State lulled me to sleep. My dogs were once surprised while walking near a bend in that river, a place where the water sat slow and lazy, allowing duckweed to collect on its surface. I suspect they thought they were stepping onto grass when their sensitive paws wetted after breaking through the green cover. And though the sounds of nighttime nature were dampened by the din of cars, the moonlight filled my room invitingly, luring me to the window to peer into the shadows formed by the big silver maple.

I come from a place touched by human hands. Indigenous people left behind an old axe more than six feet underground, found millennia later by suburban Euro-American denizens digging a fence-post hole. I come from a place of happy memories despite the anthropogenic impact, of ever-deepening connection afforded by suburban nature. I come from a place of concrete and asphalt shingles, of soft and comfortable love. I come from a place that is hard to reconcile many ways except through an accounting of crawling tent caterpillars and milkweed edges, wandering deer and crabapple trees, falling samaras and curious squirrels.