A Patchwork Quilt

You see me, and just think I'm some girl.

But I look in the mirror,

and I see so much more.

So many little peices of a giant patchwork quilt...

that's what I am.

I see my mother's nose, and her eyes.

(Although my eyelashes are thicker.)

My dad's hair,

graying and thinning on his head,

but still brown and thick on mine.

He gave me my slanted toes,

Mom gave me my high instep.

That makes for some interesting feet!

I have my Grandfather's curiousity,

and his wife's sweetness.

My great-great-great Grandma's determination,

and her children's courage

as tehy traveled across the world to join her husband.

The blood of peasents, pioneers and pilgrims

flows through my veins.

Famous outlaws, royalty and simple folk

all lurk in my  past,

creating this quilt of a person.

I'll probably have heart disease.

It's a family tradition,

despite my mom's dad's lankiness.

But I know that I'm strong.

I feel it in my hands.

(The crooked pinky passed down

from my mother's side.)

Hands of my ancestors,

hands with no artistic skill,

hands that built nations,

but gently stoked a fussy child's forehead;

a forehead as wide as mine.

Hopefully it stores my dad's brain.

This is me:

like a patchwork quilt,

I'm made from bits and pieces of my past.

Those who came before me

left me their long arms and tiny ankles,

their spontaneity and their bravery.

I am them,

all mashed together into

just some girl.