Tell me again how I need to be more like you? Talk less, opine less, and carry us both gently in that way. Remind me where you keep the instruction book for how others must operate? Is it in the pocket of your jacket, or tucked into your shoe? Who wrote this book, and why did you give it even a second glance? Did it give you shape when you were small and wildly unlike any other–shorter than your sister, less funny than your brother? Trying so hard to catch all the light from your father…your mother? Wherever they may be, breathing still, or laid to rest, or a veil of memory–faint, dissipating smoke; the light they have is still on you. Likewise, the dark water of all your ancestors–a tributary flowing through you. And in that tree there is a different book. Some pages worn near through, and others yet untouched. Some gone missing, and others best left unread. You are the trunk of that tree, the fiber of your own long line. You grow deeper every year, sinking in until you are the root, feeding the next generation. Your ideas, loose on the wind, broadcast. Your life is a story already half-written, and yet it will never end.