42/365, 23/30 The Last Ones

It never occurred to me
that being the father
of two beautiful daughters
should be a loss.
When asked if I'd want to keep trying for a son,
as though that should always have been the goal,
I was surprised, wondered why.
The answer placed the doubt and ache of regret
in a piece of my chest
that had never known more than contentment.
There were no uncles in this family tree,
the roots of which are phantom hybrids
buried and seldom spoken of.
Those who keep its secrets
will carry them beneath the earth without a whisper.
We are a fire I only just realized has dwindled,
mere embers.
My only brother has no children.
My sister has taken a husband.
My girls will be married one day.
They will be the last to carry our name.
It is not a proud one
none too noble or easy to spell
not the one I would have chosen
but mine none the less,
ours, for now
to one day mark unmatched headstones
in a small family plot,
a six-letter legacy I had every intention of leaving.
It gives no comfort to imagine
that my own name
will one day leave me.