Ciara Dreeszen
Stories (1/0)
Mom
I was crouched down over a small shoe box in the garage. It was warm, sweat began to form droplets on my temples like morning dew. It pooled together on my cupid's bow, as my lips sat pursed, before slowly reshaping into a smile. A small laugh escaped my mouth as I reached down for a picture in the box. I noticed the way my hands are veiny like yours, distinctive violets and greens protruding from our olive toned skin. In the picture we were at the beach. Your hands held mine, my arms outstretched as I desperately tried to walk on my own. It was windy, your dark wavy hair floated gently behind your shoulders, pieces danced on your prominent collar bones. They looked like mine. I reached up and felt my hair, it was coarse like yours. Your jean shorts, bikini top, and my toddler body covered most of your stomach, but just below your chest I could see the slight shadow of your ribs. I closed my eyes and I could see myself now, looking in the mirror. I looked like you. In the picture you are looking down at me smiling, our noses are different, but our faces are just alike. Your cheekbones are high, creating a vivid set of lines around your mouth. Your lips are different, but we smile the same way. There are more pictures like this in the box. In one, you are standing next to my dad with your eye brows raised and your wide smile, and in that moment I swear we are the same. But we are not.
By Ciara Dreeszen7 years ago in Families