It's said that eventually we all turn into our fathers and mothers, acquiring not only their features, but also many of their foibles.
I notice this often in myself, in fleeting moments when one's departed parent makes an unexpected reappearance.
Although I may wince at the time, for it's not always a particularly endearing characteristic that manifests itself, nevertheless it's not unpleasing to be reminded that generation after generation lives on in their offspring.
We have keepsakes and photographs, of course, but often a particular turn of phrase, a smile or frown will somehow bring the loved one back to mind with far greater poignancy.
On a yellowed flyleaf,
half a century ago,
my mother wrote to say
and Mum, that name
that buries self away.
I was her firstborn,
exuberant, willfully astray.
My childhood fears,
unbidden tears, the small, lost
battles of the day,
she dissipated in her arms.
holds her sons that way.
This poem appears in my second collection of poems, Strange Journey. See Publications tab.