32 Percent
I am 32 percent my mother.
I jumped for joy.
There was a way to measure it.
Only 32 percent her.
More my dad.
My brother called it the lesser of two evils.
I called it a miracle.
That means I have a 68 percent chance
of not being my mother.
Not my mother.
This whole time I have carried a secret.
That I am related to something I have to outrun.
That I have to work harder.
Be better.
Stay ahead of it.
Because one day
it could take over.
The part of me that is her.
I feel less pressure knowing it is only 32 percent.
Does that make it 32 percent easier.
I hope so.
When I was born, my mother said she prayed for my nose.
For it not to be large like hers.
As if that were the only thing
worth changing.
I have my dad’s nose.
I grew out of her wedding dress at twelve.
The one I was supposed to wear someday.
The zipper stopped halfway.
The dream stopped with it.
Secretly, I wanted to wear a suit.
She said I looked like a Florentine statue.
Curvy. Luscious.
She said it like a warning.
I was bigger than my mother.
They say we are two inches taller than our parents.
Are we also better.
Kinder.
Less afraid.
Is that measured.
What percentage is inherited.
What percentage is chosen.
What percentage is fault.
I am two inches taller than my mother.
I am 68 percent not her.
If I am only 32 percent her,
why has it felt like so much more?
Why has it felt like the majority?
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Kari Burroughs Kraakevik is a Colorado writer, musician, and educator. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism, Divergents Magazine, Open Secrets Magazine, The Genre Society, Chicago Story Press, Backsliders Magazine, Larina’s Lit Lounge, and Infocalypse Arts & Literary Magazine.
