Bloodline (For Dad), A Poem

Sometimes I still feel like the teenager
Who took silent escapades into our living room closet
To look at the thing your blood unknowingly passed to me
I remember the fresh gossamer riddled closet
The dust ridden portfolio case housing your past life.
I will never forget your story
Dad, the artist with lead and color pencil
Dad, who in high school competed for an art scholarship
Your opportunity to pursue your passion quelled by a fourth place
You didn’t stop then, but eventually you did
I bet drawing felt differently after
I am sure of this because I feel it too
Each stroke of my pen going astray
Each rejection slip barely bothering with my name,
Ideas of quitting this charade invade in full
In those times I think of how you encourage me.
In your own way, you remind me I am an artist
And I am an artist, I inherited it from you
And you from your mother
She with sound, you with pictures, and me with words
Every time I think about my childhood
I think of your art displayed proudly on the walls
And I realized that I would give up every word I would ever write
To see you draw again

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