This Inheritance Thing

My father drinks coffee the same way every morning -
bitter, no sugar,
big cup with a crack.
I used to think it was stubbornness,
refusing to throw things out.
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But at twenty-four,
I catch myself with a chipped mug,
drinking a sweeter version of what he likes.
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That’s how it happens though,
this inheritance thing.
Not in the big moments,
but in the quiet things.
Not always in the bone and blood,
but in the way habits sing.
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I didn’t know I was learning.
Like how I check the locks twice before bed,
the way my Mom does.
Or how I’d rage at spiders,
until I saw her fear in my own
and decided to keep still.
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They never sat me down,
never said, "this is how you live".
But here I am,
dealing with the good and bad they had to give.
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At thirteen,
I watched my grandmother trace black powder around her eyes.
She said it was for the sun,
but I knew it was for the world -
how do you meet its glare without shrinking?
I thought it was just make up,
but it was bigger,
it was how she watched the news without flinching.
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Now, each morning,
I draw those same lines.
Darker.
Harder.
Like I’m trying to carve my face out of hers.
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We carry them in strange ways -
In how we check locks twice before sleep.
In how we drink coffee.
In how we decorate our eyes,
so that my vision is theirs to keep.
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There is intergenerational trauma,
and curses to break,
but there is also the love tucked into quiet gestures,
and the strength that takes.
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Just because they didn’t break
all the chains,
doesn’t mean they left none undone.
Yes, we inherit the cracks
but that’s also how light finds its way through.
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So, i’ll keep sipping, and locking, and tracing.
Not because I want to,
but because sometimes, I don’t know
how not to.