Hereditary

I pick a pot of Plumeria, and swoon

over the violet curls of buds of morning glory,

line them up in my push-cart.

At the billing counter, he eyes me in puzzlement,

"that's an unusual choice!"

"they are my mother's favorite", I say

as if no further explanation must be required as to why

I've picked unseasoned flowers when we drove here

to buy a bunch of roses.

But he maintains his expressions, a smile put on

to shield an unsettling realization, like he did when I

rinsed old wine bottles to put cold water in the refrigerator,

or when I arranged the shirts in his wardrobe according their color,

or when I asked him not to visit the barber's on Saturdays,

"my mother used to do that", is all I can say.

The lines at the back of my wrist are

adopting the exact pattern of wrinkles

on my mother's shaky hands with which she

puts green mangoes in glass jars for pickling.

"Pick them up on your way back home, your kids love them",

and I wonder if my children love them because I do

like I love them because my mother does.

The anatomy is carried through the DNA,

the pointedness of a nose, the deeply sunken eyes,

bald patches, barren wombs, menstrual cramps,

unusual syndromes,

and our affinity to married men.

I wonder if fate is woven in our DNAs too.

If my love is an honest love for a man that

I unconditionally love

or if it's designed through destiny too -

to suffer like my mother, chasing

after an impossible dream that the world says

is wrong.