Sometimes when I look in the mirror

I see my father’s body reflected back

The same muscled arms

Skin browned from summer sun

Legs taut from constant activity 

Restless soul walking the same earth

Playing out the same story

Generation after generation

Stone upon stone.

But not looking doesn’t have anything to do with memory

Nor does it change what I am — 


Or make me able to meet her eyes in the mirror.

Not today.

Maybe someday.

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