I am a son.

I am a husband.

I am a father.

I am the photographer.

The nurse.

The guitar player in church.

Lights dim.

I was the son…

of an alcoholic.

I was the child taught

to suppress my emotions.

I struggled with

addictions of various types

and held in my fears

because I was taught to.

My father died

when I was ten.

My mother sacrificed

to raise me.

She reminded

me often,

not because she

didn’t love me,

but because

she wanted me

to understand the cost.

We inherit more

than eye color.

More than a last name.

We inherit fears.

Silence.

Addictions.

Survival methods.

We inherit stories

of whom we’re likely

to become.

But if inheritance

was destiny,

I wouldn’t be

standing here.

I’d still be

a scared little boy.

I’d still be

running from my emotions.

I’d still be trapped

by addictions,

trying to numb another wound.

Instead,

I am a husband.

I am a father.

I am a photographer.

I am a musician.

The man my father

never got to be.

The man

my children

get to know.