The older I get, the more often I look in the mirror and see my mother’s face looking back at me. I’ve got over the shock now. It’s okay. I’m resigned to it. I know my Dad’s family is in there too, somewhere, but one side’s genes predominate as time goes on; at least from where I’m standing.
On Facebook, I see my cousins and my cousins’ children, and I see my place in a pattern that goes on and on, waxing and waning, being diluted and returning with vigour a generation down the line. We all look alike, and some of us more than others. “The O’Connor is strong with that one,” I comment, and they tell me about someone else’s young fella who look just the same.
(Of course, it might not be the O’Connor. That was my grandfather. It might be my grandmother, it’s hard to tell. And before her I don’t know whether it was Spencer or King, and I’m not even sure that King was my great grandparent on that side anyway… but someone, somewhere, had strong genes and they’re still around.)
Then I look at my husband’s cousins’ Facebook babies, and they look like my daughter, or my son looks like one in particular of his cousins more than all the others. The family lines prevail: the hair, the cheeks, the nose, the chin. The particular distance from the upper lip to the base of the nose. That way the corners of the mouth go whenever they smile.
We’re all just points on a continuum. We all take our place in the line, the tree, the human race. It’s comforting, really, to be a part of something that persists, regardless.
Even if I’m still not so happy about my nose.