Again and Again

Yesterday,

startled,

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,

genetic,

and learned.

 

Today,

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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