The Legacy of them

Anonymous

What does it mean to my mother’s child? My father’s son?

How do I link my mother’s deep brown waves, lightened with bleach

To my curls, color everchanging but naturally the same color as hers?

How do I continue my father’s art, curls like my hair with colors like the Starry

Night?

My lines scratching the paper contrast his smooth style, my realism

contradicts his abstract.

How do I connect with my mother’s religion, the spiritual beauty she finds in

the world?

While my knees are only red from kneeling when I need someone to hear me

late into the night.

How do I continue the legacy of others who I came from, but relate to so little?

I notice the beauty and the flaws in my parents’ legacy, forced to carry both

parts, but given the chance to love them too. I hear my mother in my second-

guessing, the nagging and questioning feeling behind her genius. I see my

father in my scars, the reckless decisions leaving permanent marks on his

body.

I see my mother in my style, flowing blacks and reds combined with clinking

silver jewelry that she wore not long ago. I hear my father in my deadpan

sarcastic responses, the ones that either lead to laughter or confusion. I

connect with my parents in the unwavering love I feel, the part of me that

keeps me alive, just like they do.