From where you stand, yes - because you learned early that flight and falling share a muscle.
Your father grew up in Iran, where birds are not just birds.
They are patience stitched with wings, verses perched on telephone wires, omens that know how to leave without betraying love.
He carried that knowing across oceans, folded it into his pockets with pistachio shells and silence.
You are highly sensitive - which means the world reaches you before it explains itself. A sound bruises. A memory blooms. When you cry, it is not only yours.
So when a bird lifts from a tree, something loosens behind your eyes. The body remembers what the mind never lived: dust roads warming at dawn, a boy watching the sky because it was the one place no one could take from him.
A tear is just a bird that couldn't finish its sentence. Salt instead of feathers. Gravity instead of wind.
Sometimes your father would look out a window and say nothing and you felt a migration through you.
You inherit it - not the country, not the language, but the ache of beauty that must keep moving to survive.