a resemblance

I don’t know if I have my father’s eyes or my mother’s cheekbones, but I know my hands measure cumin and cardamom the way she taught me. My humor is hers too, the way she tells jokes, cheesy and filtered with gold, making us laugh, a private earthquake.

And Dad, god, his face could write novels. Eyebrows arching like cathedral doors when he argues, lips pursed to stifle a grin at his own jokes. Now I catch myself mid-gesture, my fingers flare just like his when I talk about the immorality of it all, my voice rising in the same crescendo. 

What’s DNA compared to this?

They live in my raised eyebrow at bad jokes, my gasp at a stories punchline, the way I hold a silence before bursting with laughter.