Grandchild

Do you remember me?

Vaguely, if at all?

Was I lucky enough to hold the infant that was you,
before I departed for the silence beyond this life?

It's likely that we'll never meet, so I'm leaving you these words.

I hope some day you'll find them when you go looking for
answers; to help you understand who and why you are.

Much of who we are depends on a tiny strand
of genetic code at the core of our being.

It makes your hair grow straight, or turns it
red, or your eyes blue instead of green.

DNA makes you uniquely you; a random blend of all
the people and personalities who were your ancestors.

Are you an artist?

Do you paint,
or write,
or make music?

That might be me, being part of you.

Do you have a gap between your two front teeth?
My mother's mother gave us that.
Who knows where she got it?

Are you extra tall?
Could be the Wakefield
in your blood.

Are you hot-headed?
Passionate?

Do you get a little preachy once in awhile,
or become easily incensed at injustice?

That's my grandfathers, mingled together
in the man that is, or was once, me.

But I'm only one of your grandfathers,
a tiny fraction of all that you are;
a fourth, or an eighth, a sixteenth, even less.

There's no telling which of us got you into this mess.

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