We may live apart from our families,
But we are a part of them all the same—
Perhaps more so as, with absents,
We have the time and space for reflection
While not emersed in an emotional swamp
Of the mundane, nor the drum of close
Proximity to the petty or ungenerous.
The blood of families is made by mind
More than metaphors of heart or spleen—
By mind more than all else, not genes.
We are the product of sentiments
And of predilections, prejudice unseen;
And, just as often, of our reaction to such
Foolishness or brilliance as made us,
As to the enigma of origins we never knew
But shapes us, and makes us, all the same.