Patchwork Quilt

The daughter’s eyes, the smile of my son,
I wonder where these things come from.
My stringy hair, my gap-toothed grin,
did a little of my past slip in?
Is it grandpa’s wit, or auntie’s love,
or does it all come from above?
I wish I knew how I came to be,
this person who is known as me.
For if I never know who I am,
how can I pass it down to them?
The things that make my children what they are,
seem to come from so far.
Away from some distant land,
on whose ground someday I hope to
stand.