There is very little of myself that is completely original.
My hands. They remain cracked and calloused—especially throughout the warmer months—in the same way my father’s are. Tough skin weathered by splintered wood displays the reminders of a summer well spent, filling the time with busy woodworking projects.
My fingertips are worn in the same places as my neighbors’, especially after a night filled with the paired voices of our guitars left to serenade the shining, fire-lit sky.
The shape my hands form, though accustomed to cradling the neck of an instrument, desire to grasp the leather handlebars of a motorcycle someday. An infatuation filtered down by an old cousin at the early age of four, responsible for the clutter of Harley Davidson memorabilia stored away in my bedroom.
My eyes. Out of my immediate family, I’m the only one with blue eyes. Brown, hazel, and green are the norm, but I chose to take after my grandpa, who handed down the last bit of color to his only granddaughter.
Only recently have I discovered that my grandma’s eyes, although a different shade than mine, gleam with a remarkable resemblance to my own, but only when we’re together. We share a lively sparkle that ignites at whatever family event we become bored with, and our trailing laughter never fails to get us into some kind of trouble.
I’ve also learned to take her advice to heart. I continue to follow her instructions to appreciate someone, to fall in love with someone, by their eyes first. Appearances will change, but the eyes never will. Understanding a person’s gaze ultimately leads to an understanding of the heart and soul.
Appearances will change, but the eyes never will. Understanding a person’s gaze ultimately leads to an understanding of the heart and soul.
My taste in movies. My brother’s passion for film starting in high school bled, not only into the quality of cinema that I surround myself with but even in the way that I watch films. He occasionally comments on the difficulty he has viewing movies because of his education in them. Camera shots, visual effects, and dialogue are all things that he subconsciously pays attention to instead of enjoying the emotional ride of a film.
Though I may not share his intense passion for classic cars, he has passed on his love for shows and documentaries surrounding the topic. He watches them for the informative aspect; I watch them to laugh. My sense of humor only bonds us through our connected passion for cinema from every angle.
My mannerisms.
I maintain my love for a certain type of potato chip because my seventh-grade best friend introduced me to them. I order the same chai tea every time I go to a coffee shop because my neighbor made me try it before I knew what I liked. I drink Vernors every time I have a stomach ache because my mom gave it to me as a little kid, and it helped that one time. I try to end each email, each small interaction with “I appreciate you” because it made me feel important the first time someone said that to me.
My blood paints the canvas of my existence with the characteristics of everyone who’s ever held a place in my life, even for just a heartbeat.
