Again and Again



then stopped,

catching sight

of my fingers,

as they clutched a book.


Not my hand,

it was yours, Dad,

the nails longer

than I usually keep them

a bit of earth,

caught up under them,

an arc of dark pigment,

adorning each tip,

the way yours looked,

at the end of each day,

spent painting.


As I get older,

it seems to be,

resemblances are growing,

compounded by,

a lifetime of expressions,

and movements,


and learned.



I will cut my nails,

but they will grow back,

and I will find you, Dad,

again and again,

in me.



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