by rachel

I read the obituaries from over my mother’s shoulder.
Something about the way the lady smiled
at me through the pages was vaguely familiar ; I
found myself tracing the lines that her nose,
eyebrows, eyes, made across the rectangle, mapping out
the curve of her smile against the patterns of her skin.

I hear myself telling my mother –
“She looks like she was very pretty when she was young”

– “We are all pretty when we are young”