I have his joyful joking
and her quiet perseverance;
his dislike of crazy crowds,
but her love of the stage.
My day has his morning mug of black coffee,
and her 15-minute-lunch-hour-nap;
it begins with a robe he gave me,
and ends with a book she recommended.
I have the smile he paid a small truck for;
the education her parents never encouraged;
his addiction to food;
her whimsical taste;
the bounce in his step;
the song in her head.
Even without their genes,
I am my parents.