Looking In

Staring into the eyes of my mother,
I never saw the tenderness I hoped would be there.
I saw a different kind of compassion.
One I had hoped to see was one like a slow trickle of creek water flowing over a
group of rocks. Instead they were all gathered together, shielding each other
from the harsh sympathy that really was my mother.

Staring into the eyes of my father, I always see the anger I
know is present in him.
He has an angry soul.
My father's rage I carry within me.
My father's anger is a thunderstorm.
It tears down trees that once stood tall, he uses his words
almost never for good.

Staring into my own eyes in the mirror,
I see the concern of my mother, the fury of my father, and the love I have made all my own.
I see the intelligence of both my parents and the stature of confidence that I gained
through falling down and bearing the storm.
I see me.
I am not my mother.
I am not my father.
I am me.