The Story is written through my Mother’s hands

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I once thought:

my hands were my mother’s.

Upon further inspection

I realized

my knuckles

and the grasping

toward more

was my father’s.

 

I once thought

my smile was my mother’s.

But then I discovered

my teeth, my eyes

the way I fall prey

to how others need pleasing —

those belonged to my father,

instead.

 

A joke that begs

for laughter

and impatience that lingers

in a crowd

and boredom that erupts

in steady silence

of sitting still —

my father.

 

My mother gave me words

my mother

shared her hands

to write each word

letter

by

letter,

and my father:

my father

was the one

whose bellow

showed me

how volume

is not the same

as writing

in bold.

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