I Am My Father’s Daughter


I come from scabbed knees and calloused hands, hair sweet with the smell of freshly-mowed grass, and bitten-down fingernails with dirt along the cuticles.

I am fishing poles and baseball bats, glasses and mud-stained cleats, ponytails and a matching birthmark in the center of my right palm.

I am the wooden jewelry box with the coin collection, the package of unused cigars, and the wrinkled photograph of the two of us from when I was barely three, showing off my naked, white bottom to the camera alongside his.

I am the necklaces hanging off my dresser knobs, the handwritten letter tucked in my journal, and the dried roses from our first dance lining the edge of my mirror.

I am dark hair and even darker eyes. An introspective, quiet mind.

I am a sharp tongue and careful hands. A quick-temper with a gentle heart.

I am a woman who craves connection, yet loves solitude. Who is tough, but also kind.

Today I read a proverb about water, how it is fluid and soft, but how it wears away rock. Water that overcomes the harshness, the fierceness, the thickness of a solid stone.

I am my father’s daughter. Like water, we are soft, but strong.


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