in my skin i see my mother's skin. my feet have become her feet, my fingernails like her tight ovals, elbows rough and cheekbones arching beneath soft skin. i use her diminutives and her inflection. i can hear her voice echoed when i speak.

i've avoided her spiraling frenzies under stress, though i've been known to cry out of frustration and like any good mammal i lash out when cornered. i think i manage to sidestep her tendency to repeat an instruction ad nauseam, though i've never yet had to get three kids out the door before eight every morning.

i think i have some of her dignity; i hope i do. some of her inner dexterity, her ability to fill all the roles required of her without losing herself. some of her exceptional love, the gently fierce pride and tenderness.

and beneath that, i can see my grandmother's hands in mine as i type, the straight-backed integrity inside her hunched and trembling figure. i remember winter mornings with steaming mugs of hot chocolate and oversugared grapefruit, taking the crusts from my bread outside to feed to her carefully gaurded horde of birds. she leaned over my shoulder as we watched them industrious in the garden, pointing out doves and finches. even when surgery and illness rendered her housebound, she insisted on tending to her own sprawling rosebushes.

my eyes are said to be my grandfathers', the same deep greyblue passing down from each side, skipping my parents to shine from my eyes, and my brother's. my father tells me that in mind also i am like the grandfather whom i alone of my siblings remember. his books on philosophy and psychology and politics sit on my bookshelf, his scribbled notes in the margins. my father himself gave me his expressive eyebrows and an enduring interest in the intricacies of the world.

in this month i have passed a birthday and mother's day away from my family. for the first time since i left for school, i truly felt the separation.