circles

When I was a child
I used to look at my mother.
I marveled at her hands,
So delicate, so beautiful.

I wondered if I would ever look like her.

As I grew, I knew this was not to be.
My hands, not enormous,
Are my father's hands,
Not my mother's

But my face.

I am the image of my mother.
I have her eyes, her expressions,
Her hair, her nose--
So when I look in a mirror

I see my mother gazing back at me.

I married, had children, and marveled.
So beautiful, so distinct,
And yet so similar
One to another.

And now they're grown.

Three look like me.
One looks like his father.
Although they all have features of both
and they are distinct to themselves.

And they have children, too.

Do those children look at their parents,
Do they notice hands, hair, eyes,
And do they say to themselves,
I wonder if I will ever look like that?