To confront a person with his shadow is to show him his own light. —Carl Jung
How many times have I heard myself
chalk up my keep-the-peace proclivity,
my pen-to-paper instinct,
to Dad and Mom respectively;
assign origin of both gifts and hardships
to Eldes and Johnsons?
My two-year-old son has already started.
My coat is from Mama.
My guitar is from Dada.
My book is from Grandpa Randy.
My shoes are from Grandma Robyn…
I wonder. Is this the beginning?
Benign precursor of more charged attributions
down the road? And might I have passed down
the tendency to ascribe origin in the first place
to a son who says often, staring up at his ceiling,
The shadows are in the light?