She puts her index finger to her pursed lips. She furrows her brow. She looks off into some indefinite point in space, and says “Hmmmmmm……”

She pauses. Contemplates. Clearly she is considering a complex question of considerable importance. Then, brow still furrowed, gaze still steady, she puts the question into words.

“Which book should we read next?”

No. This isn’t some pompus grad student attempting to appear profound. This is my two year old daughter.

Where on earth did all of that come from? The gestures? The intonation? Well, it had to have come from me. Not that I am even familiar with myself using those gestures. But I must.

She actually looked just like my dad, not my image of myself. My sweet, gentle, contemplative father died several years before she was born. But I guess his gestures and intonation live on in me.

And in her.