Here's Blood in Your Eye
I am always shocked to see my parents in the mirror. I see them in my face, my body - mine, not theirs, but there they are! Even my grandmother is here. I see her in the size of my butt. My grandfather called her "Bottleass."
I see my mother in my frown and find her waiting in the back of my moods. She is the reflective silver of my metal mirror, my mental illness, my self. And so, having avoided her all these many years only to realize I haven't gotten very far away, haven't gotten away at all? Well, there you go. Wherever you go, they say, there you are.
I see my father in my eyes and his father in his eyes in mine. We are looking through one another, sad and ashamed and sorry. Living and dead and still unlearned, still imperfect vessels for the clear blue.
I've spent time on the past, though, poring over files and dates and names on graves, in the trees, the family trees of the further families. Have stared at bone structure, noses and mouths and brows and the coarseness of hair. Two, three, four generations back. As far as the photos go. I try to see me. Me? Mine? How did I get here, from there? From where?
But that is the past. The further back you go the more diluted the blood is. It's weak. The blood is weak when you can't touch it. I've always had a family. I came from a man and a woman and years have piled on hard years and I will now not meet their faces, until I see my own, and look away.
Richmond, VA. Lisa's New Year's resolution was to talk less about cats, but that didn't last long. She will try again next year.