Footsteps

My grandmother said that having me was like 

seeing my mother grow up twice;

same face, same hands, same heart.

I turned to books and words and she saw the ghost of my mother’s childhood in my steps,

walking the library aisles with the same umber eyes, 

collecting notebooks for stories that die in silence.

How much of me is me?

How much is my mother?

She held my hand when we crossed the street,

mirror images of each other in a fun house,

distorted but still recognizable as the same body.

(We don’t talk about how I resemble my father.)

Two daughters with the same history,

I want a new story to tell but I carry the same bones 

as all the women in the family.

Another cycle, unbroken.

Another daughter molded in her mother’s footsteps