Ahh, my gentle snowflakes, I rise for a point of personal privilege. (If you do not understand, I highly recommend you join a group/organization which adheres to some form of Robert's Rules of Order.)
As I age, I have been making my father's noises. For quite some time now, I have been making, especially, his morning noises and, lately, I have added his middle of the night noises. More or less, I have gotten used to it. Sometimes a particular noise will startle me. Mostly though, I have grown to accept them--as just gentle reminders of my father. It could be worse, I could have received the gene that gave him that ski slope of a nose! Bad enough that from the genetic lottery I drew the jug-handle ears.
This morning, though, when I put on my socks--I saw my mother's feet.
Not long and elegant. Oh, no, not long and elegant. No, I saw feet with tendons ropy, toes boney, veins pronounced.
I do not like it. Do not like it one bit.