A profound question, I must say.

Take my hand, dear reader. No, truly. Take it. This deserves some hand-holding.

Let us begin with tradition.

Such an innocent little word.

How many times must one do something before it becomes a tradition? Twice? Every year? And what if—heaven forbid—you miss a year?

Surely a tradition cannot be so fragile.

But what if it is?

What if generations before me carried a custom through war, famine, pestilence, and the occasional unfortunate marriage—only for it to end with me?

Because I forgot Tuesday.

My hand rises to my breast. The room grows warm. My knees weaken.

Hold me!

Will future generations speak my name in hushed, horrified tones?

She was the one.

The one who forgot.

Oh, the shame.

And that was merely tradition.

I had not yet considered culture.

Good heavens.

I find myself confronted with matters of identity. Of inheritance. Of belonging.

Is my culture determined by the soil upon which I was born, or the soil upon which I presently stand? Does one inherit culture at birth, along with one’s name, one’s nose, and certain family peculiarities that everyone politely agrees never to discuss?

Already, I feel faint again.

Identifying myself with a culture has begun to feel like wearing my grandfather’s suit. The sleeves are too long. The fabric is itchy. And I haven’t the faintest idea who I am supposed to be while wearing it.

Seeking clarity, I attempted research.

I began with Thanksgiving.

There is a bird.

We stuff it.

Already, I have concerns.

No one appears alarmed.

Is this culture? Or have we collectively agreed upon an elaborate coping mechanism for seasonal affective disorder?

The deeper I search, the less certain I become.

I merely wanted to answer the Daily Prompt.

Now I am questioning my entire existence.

Yet, the prompt demands to know which tradition I love.

Sir.

You presume much.

I require tea.

Possibly a fainting couch.

Perhaps both.