More than five times have I been blessed,
from my vantage point, the middle man.
Two sisters and four brothers
all offspring of the same mother,
all with their quirks and styles,
(everyone with Dad’s smile) and
a completely separate branch on the family tree,
foliage gone, but the rings around the trunk
assure a longevity; a brevity in the span
of this vast universe so created, and elated
that we have come to reconnect at a time
where the incredible shrinking surname
wanes towards obscurity. A factual surety
that frames this portrait with love and understanding
no longer demanding and pompous, an enormous relief
in the belief that in assuming the mantle left behind
we will find our footing and map out new ground,
profound in the knowledge of our origin and happy
we were afforded the opportunity to flex our wile,
while never straying far from our connection.
Joseph, your history is our mystery. Not around long enough
to make a blemish, although leaving your mark on our fabric.
Cynthia, queen mother so assumed, groomed for the position
of matriarch with enough of a spark to be yourself.
Paul, sure and independent, most reticent to belong,’
too strong for your own damn good, a marvel with wood.
Tim, wild and free, determined to take life by the throat
and squeeze every ounce out of its living.
Ken, backbone in question, but heart always in place,
a face only a mother could love, (and she could have been jiving!)
Laurie, a singular soul, her only attachments are her siblings
and her felines, straddling the fine line of “Crazy Cat Lady”.
Where does that leave me? Walt the word guy, know-it-all,
writing the script that skirts dysfunction for the joy our bond provides.
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