Roots, a poem by Savannah Koenig

I look down at my hands and see my mother’s.

Not only in the short, stubby fingers and wide palms,

But in the habits shown clearly in my fingers.

My nails are short from anxious biting,

And a thick callus permanently lays atop my left ring finger.

I see my father’s eyes in the mirror.

Not just in the deep brown or thin almond shape,

But in the creases formed from years of laughter

And silent worry lines held between my eyebrows.

You don’t live in my hands or in my eyes

But deep down in my gut.

You live in the walls I put up, in the anxious over explanations.

You inhabit the tears in my eyes,

The wavering in my voice

The forced smiles and shallow breaths.

You don’t live in my hands or in my eyes

But deep down in my gut.

You live in the walls I put up, in the anxious over explanations.

You inhabit the tears in my eyes,

The wavering in my voice

The forced smiles and shallow breaths.

But he I live in the oranges that beam through my window,

In the pinks that touch my cheeks,

and in the dark reds that pump through my chest.

Slowly you’re leaving my body.

I see it in the fading scars.

In the tears he I dry and the walls he I knock down.

Soon you’ll only inhabit the memories I keep tucked away.

Folded neatly and placed in a corner of my mind.

My father’s eyes will find the path

and my mother’s hands will lead the way.