Finally I gave up and became of father,

His messy room

piles of newspapers

As if especially to hurt

Mom's homemaker image she holds to herself,

The way he speaks

Annoyingly precise

To catch people in things they don't understand,

The worst I know is a physical attribute

Which will invade me quietly

His stiff tense intimidating chin

Jutting forward

Imposing frightfully

Whenever he is angry,

Whenever I am angry.



My mother cries to me over these things in him,

(Cowlicks in his smooth brown hair)

Since she knows

I will catch them like pneumonia.

She always feared me getting pneumonia,

Says I play too much sports.



My father loves sports. Mother hates them.

I like sports the way my mother hates them.



I see her anger as I leave her

for soccer games in the rain.

Her chin doesn't do that funny thing, though.

Dad smiles proudly as I leave

Wishing me luck to win.



She has yet to see my father in me.

My fate, I have realized, saddens her.

I'm catching his desires.

The cowlick hasn't come yet.



I can hear my mother coming

Up the stairs to my room.

She enters,

Disappointment and tiredness

Are thrown from her words.

"Get rid of those piles of clothes, Jess,

They've been there a week."

"Yeah, sure." I mumble sharply,

Not taking my eyes from my page.

I hear that all the time.

And she,

hearing my response like a skipping record,

She leaves, sorry for me.

Today we all gave up,

And I became my father.