My mother's death

Yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death. My sister Cc'd my brother and me a reminder, accompanied with an old family photo. I lit a candle. But all day it lingered in the back of my mind just how different I look from the rest of my family. It's certainly occurred to me before but the photo reminded me. I look more like an Iranian exchange student with a cryptic smirk than a cheery American suburbanite. My brother provides a bit of balance with his pork chop sideburns, but I definitely look like an outsider. Since I woke up this morning, I've been speculating on who my father might have been. If it wasn't dear old dad, it probably was Pat Deeny, the swarthy, loud mouthed, comic reading drunk who lived up the hill from where mom and dad were living when I was born. Or maybe it was the soldier with the pet monkey my mom used to tell me about. She'd laugh about how much the monkey liked me and would jump on my shoulder when ever it saw me. I wonder what dear old mom and the soldier were doing after they let the monkey loose on me. It's taken me a long time to learn to like monkeys.