My daughter is a ghost of my father.
Tiny traits, scavenger hunt clues, emerge
in unexpected places.
My father, creature of habit, used his orange,
plastic, coffee cup for decades.

Daily, he rinsed out the cup in hot water.
Me, an insufferable twit of a teen, jeered 
at his refusal to clean the cup with dish soap.
He lived to a healthy ninety-five, never once
cleansing his cup my way.

My daughter refuses the dishwasher. Living
in my home, she stakes her claim. A dish towel,
on the kitchen counter, holds a pyramid of her
rinsed dishes, no soap involved.

When he retired, my father simplified his routine.
He dressed early each morning in a uniform of khaki
pants then, selected one of three Sears wash and wear, 
short-sleeve button-down shirts. At 3:00 each afternoon,
he changed into his pajamas and house slippers. 

Daughter arises when the cock crows, accomplishes 
her daily chores, indulges in her pleasures, runs a bath
at 3:00; dons her pajamas and house slippers afterwards.
She doesn’t smoke a pipe like he did, or crack and eat
walnuts after dinner.

She never tells me,
     “Do your best, that’s all a mule can do.”
She never calls me, “squirrel or rabbit.”
She leaves her “to do” list on the kitchen table
exactly like he did, in precise cursive with things 
done, lined through.