The men make up the height in my family. Shooting up like weeds my mom always said. My grandpa, dad, and I are towers, shadowing over our shorter relatives. My grandmother makes a measly five foot compared to my grandpa’s shocking six four.

I suppose this trait ran through the generations. And to come with size, our voices sound like a baritone symphony calling from the other room, deep downward pitch. Like Goliath, it is safe to say we can see the screen in theaters. Standing up stands out in most crowds we encounter. We are skyscrapers reaching for the sky.

Maybe it’s all those vegetables I didn’t eat? They don’t share this trait, but my head is a magnet for low hanging objects pulling them right in...suddenly smack! I hit my head again.

It is like a blessing, reaching this on the tall shelf and like a curse, not fitting anywhere, my grandpa, dad, and I have. Making the most of what we are given.