I Am Your Daughter

"You're such a Wentworth!"

Daddy, mother always reminds me I’m your progeny,
Claiming, “You’re such a Wentworth!” about my every trait,
This is undeniable: I am everything that is you.

Father your free spirit makes me unconstrained and gets me into trouble,
I just yearn to be independent, to be zealous with life,
But everyone perceives me as a rebel, insolent and stubborn.
I blame you.

You never let me have a kitten, but snakes and lizards hid in every corner of our house,
I remember your spontaneous chases; in pursuit of catching me a new pet,
Now I am intrigued by their beauty and entranced by those smooth, swift serpents.

Who was the one in our family tree that married a muse?
Creativity flows from my fingers in everyway possible,
Imagination must be my white blood cells and inspiration must be the red.

You make me laugh with your jesting; this humor you gifted to me,
I thank you for my comical wit, but blame you for my inability to not blurt it out,
Too hilarious to be repressed, apparently not everyone thinks so.

Daddy, boys tell me I’m pretty; they say I have beautiful eyes,
Your Indian blood makes me exotic and mysterious,
Thank you for your dark eyes and hair of chocolate resemblance.

Father, please break this curse; your children are falling in the holes you’ve dug,
I blame you for my addictive behavior.
Forewarn the travelers following of such a treacherous trail called life.

“Throw this stuff away!” mother always tells me about my so-called junk,
Thanks to you I keep everything! There comes that creativity again,
Father why is every marble, bottle cap and leaf a treasure to you and I?

Smiling now, I know who blessed me with crooked teeth,
White fence boards misaligned and crowded by time,
Once hated, I’ve grown accustom to my imperfect smile.

Dad come sit by my bedside; How come I can’t sleep?
Our ancestors must have been night owls,
Why is the day so hard to wake up to, and the night so interesting?

Your Wentworth background awarded me with athletic grace,
Everyone in the family is good at some kind of sport,
Too bad I never use any of them.

Thank you father for my love of rocks,
Pockets full of them, I can’t seem to help picking them up,
I wonder what extraordinary lives they faced to be created into such unique splendor,
And in just a simple thing as a tiny rock.

Daddy, people always remind me that I’m your progeny,
Claiming, “You’re such a Wentworth!” about my every trait,
Undeniable and grateful: for I am everything that is you.

from the heart of,
your Little-Love