Heritage

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Running around the house,
I search for my misplaced book.
I come to a halt as Dad slams the garage door.
Mom is waiting for Dad,
and for me to return to homework.

My feet are glued to the floor, watching Dad walk over.
I notice a lot of myself in him:
Daring boldness to travel the world, and to indulge in escargot
The one near-sighted eye I possess,
My most treasured artistic talent,
And daft fingers for paper and piano.

Mom gave me the strength to keep going,
To resist any shower of painful words.
She gave me the ability to stop for a split second and think
About actions that might not be worth making.
The mental state to never give up,
And be the best I can be.

Under my roof, I have learned that when coming home,
With some sort of award or trophy in hand,
Or any accomplishment,
Praises don’t come easily for such small things
And that trying harder is never an option.





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