bones

While in England, I discovered yet another thing that my dad and I have in common: our hands. My mom, she gave me her body shape. Our wide hips and narrow waists and muscular thighs form our hourglass figures akin to those in biology textbooks. (Though, given the fashion industry's fascination with the heroin-grunge look and all-around flat models, this has NOT been a blessing in the least.) Her long graceful fingers, however, those I did not inherit. Instead I got little hands with shapeless fingers, ones that I have been embarrassed about for so much of my life. (To the point that I even avoid wedding pictures that include close-ups of my hands.) So there I was, going through life in agony of my orphan ugly hands, completely unaware that this is yet another proof that my dad did in fact contribute to my genetic makeup. And this clarity, it blinds me!

I will admit though, that despite my parents living on different continents, it is a calming thought that at least I have parents. I can trace back the proverbial DNA breadcrumbs they left for me on my path and hopefully end up somewhere at the origin. Because this tree, it needs the roots.