The assignment was to write a poem of origin. I wrote this one a while ago in my growing collection called genealogy poetry
Legacy
When we quip that motherhood runs in our family,
we just giggle, tickled by the tug
of that long ribbon --a swaddling cord,
a lifeline back so far, its strands divided by two
and two and two again, generations
each as strong as the other, the names all but lost:
Hannah, Diana, Anna Celestina, Elsie, and Ida all step forward
to laugh in our kitchen dreams where we hear our own voice,
see a little hint here and there in our daughters' hands or jesting eyes,
a bolder stroke of potency when any trouble comes.
There are the little trinkets that survive us:
a dinner bell, a painted box, a blue plate,
ancient photos of laughing girls in long dresses.
Motherhood runs in our family.