by Kelly Sicard
Is life merely handed down?
Yellow high-tops snuck
from sister’s closet,
sun-kissed freckles passed
from Dad’s DNA,
ripened stories picked
from Mom’s memories,
salty sayings and second chances
from little brothers.
How much of me, if anything,
is baked from scratch?
My morning tea steeps
the familiar brand
found in my childhood kitchen cabinet.
The thick batter I pour
with my daughter
the same I mixed
with Mother.
Playing cards on the dining table
match pairs with tradition.
If I untangle our line
and examine my strand,
would I see a stranger
through the looking glass?
Still a freckled girl,
but one who chooses
kitten heels over comfy sneakers,
coffee beans over tea leaves,
city streetlights over family game nights.
Will I ever know if I’ve lived
with a voyager’s heart
or an acolyte’s devotion?
I get twisted up trying
to unravel family customs.
But maybe understanding
is less taking apart
and more adding:
a scarf in my hair,
a different book on the nightstand,
the latest dance move.
Did my once-new simply fade into normal?
Like the pumpkin cheesecake recipe
I snipped from a magazine,
the unexpected night classes
that changed life’s course,
the heart’s shift
from free-roaming to fence-building.
I guess I am more
than what was handed down.