Hereditary

I had a psychic tell me once,

as she was reading the lines in my palm, skimming over them like news articles with interesting headlines,

that I had an angel watching over me

and a voice that people will listen to

and a curious nature

(I know I wrote all this down somewhere pardon me I can’t seem to remember where I put the contents of my destiny)

but no mention of the future-tense ten healthy children and token handsome, hardworking husband.

She said to be wary of addiction and depression,

that it was in my DNA,

and I don’t know the science behind that but it kinda makes sense,

and I’m starting to like the way the room spins when I laugh and how a liquid so cold can burn all the way down and give you a sense of artificial peace in your bones.

So there’s the woman with the nice flowy dress and the bracelets with dangling beads that feel like rain as they tickle my wrist and she holds my hand to examine it,

tracing lines with long fingers,

she smells like cigarette smoke and nag champa

and she tells me “It’s in your DNA”

and even though the aunts and uncles, the cousins and grandparents,

they never outright told me those stories,

at family reunions you can see them,

written in quirks and mannerisms, well-worn faces and frayed interactions,

those stories are plain enough to read once you learn the grownup’s ABCs

It’s hereditary.

The word is a blessing and a curse because when you get older and you see the darker side of your relations’ lives,

the stuff that never gets mentioned at the Thanksgiving table,

well, you can’t help but wonder.

And when you get that hollow kind of feeling that comes and goes on still summer nights, you don’t even want to whisper the “depression” word,

because you grew up in grandpa’s house always thinking he had died in his sleep never noticing the bullet hole in the ceiling in a corner of the kitchen.

Because you’re not gonna let it get to that, not even close,

It’s just a quirk in your DNA, that’s all,

a side-effect of being born into the family. It’s written into the lines of your palms and

the rhythm of your pulse,

but it’s not just you, it’s hereditary.