Sweet Spot

No one in my family 
did things like lift weights, 
run a marathon or pitch a tent 
for a week in the wilderness, go 
rock-climbing or surfing. Instead,
as a child, I was given paper 
and pencils, scissors and glue, 
a whole bookshelf I was allowed 
to work through to my satisfaction. 
I read of stars and constellations, 
sea voyages, wars and conquests;
fables of armies and heroes who, 
I'm sure, knew how to rub two 
stones together to make fire.
But I never wondered if they also
knew how much water for every cup 
of rice, against which finger joint
to measure the right amount;
or if their fathers ever sang 
Let Me Call You Sweetheart
to them as a lullaby.

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