heather and i ran into a woman who attends my father's church at the mall today. "you don't look anything like your father," she said, "but you have your mother's smile."
i don't know how to respond to that.
to some, this might only be the most fleeting of thoughts; but my identity, from my own perspective, is so tightly woven round the husk of my youth that a threat upon any part of it is a threat upon all of it.
i see it, when i look at pictures. there is a face that transmutes between frames. the father becomes the son and the son becomes the father. it is there.
yet with increasing frequency, i hear surprise at the comparison. several times in the last month: "why, you don't look anything alike."
what does that mean? anything? nothing?
we want roots. i want roots. i suspect the roots want roots but can't, and therein lies the rub.