Ancestors

My relatives keep showing up.
Oh, yes, it’s true.

When I was young, I used to hold out my ears,
Which were my dad’s,
Which looked like a taxi cab
Coming down the street, back doors wide open.
That’s what he said anyway. I still do this sometimes.

Then a while back, he appeared in my bathroom mirror
Of all places
One morning after I’d brushed my teeth.
I grinned into my image like he had
And heard his words coming out of my mouth,
“Hello, you rascal!”

Ten years ago, my mother’s high cheek bones
Rose from the planes of my face,
Elegant and smooth with just a touch of arrogance in them
When I tilted my face upwards and to the side.

Just a couple of months back, Gramma Florence’s
Upper arms arrived—striated and crepey—
From decades of lifting and sunning, dancing and hugging.
I feel her again in the soft pillows of my arms’ crème-filled warmth.

Oh, and, only yesterday, I welcomed Grampa Webster back into my life.
I never thought he’d come.
“Hi, Grampa!” I said to his lightly freckled, hair-sprouting knuckles
That erupted through mine.
It was so good to see him again.

Yes, they keep showing up.
And I am holding them close
In Memory and Love
Knowing that my ancestral body
will thrive in my children and survive in their children too.
Someday.