I am not my maternal grandmother; I refuse to wash plastic tableware in order to reuse it.

But I feel her hands every time my fingers press into a ball of dough, and I try to inject deep love into food like she did.

I am not my maternal grandfather; my tools will never be infinitely repaired instead of purchasing new ones.

But I think fondly of him every time I wash my hands, remembering the care he took with every precise, meaningful movement.

I am not my paternal grandmother; I will never do my hair perfectly (in case someone should drive by) simply to mow the lawn.

But when my family and friends are gathered in my house and I am in the kitchen cooking and setting up, I feel the pride she must have felt for successfully bringing everyone together for a good, happy time.

I am not my paternal grandfather; I will never have a love for Branson, MO, within me.

But love of wide open fields, fertile land, and the bounties of harvest will always run deep in my blood because of him.

I am not my sister; I will never jump out of bed and land on the floor fully dressed and perky.

But I hope to pass onto my children the connection she and I have shared as siblings, as it is both flexible yet unbreakable, the perfect combination to last the ravages of time and change.

I am not my mother; I will never think that dealing with the sick, infirm, or dying is, “interesting”.

But I channel her every single time I have to do something considered disgusting or unpleasant for my child, as she would have drank raw sewage if it meant we would be happy and healthy.

I am not my father;  I will never be able to part with sentimental objects as easily as he can in the name of neatness.

But I can only hope to be half as fiercely loyal towards my children as he is to me and my sister.

I am not my family — but I have the best of them within me.