I have come to recognize certain genetic traits that have been
handed down to me, patterns of behavior, certain involuntary
actions. I can feel them happening, that worried look of my
mother’s, that almost angry, I-deserve-better-than-this look.
And my father’s cough, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled to
the elbow, a pencil poised motionless above a scrap of paper
lying on the yellow oilcloth that covers the table, next to the
white porcelain salt and pepper shakers with the red metal
tops. Which means it must be sometime in the 1040’s, the war
still going on. Neither of them saying a work, as if stunned
there in the dim late night light of the kitchen. And what am
I doing here? I should have been in bed hours ago.
~ from Sea Smoke (Holy Cow! Press 2004)
