From a distance the resemblance is striking. The shape of her face, the softness of her neck, the way she turns her head to speak to her companion.
Occasionally I dream about her—not often, but when I do I wake wrapped in the most bitter sweetness.
Closer now, and it’s her smiling almond-shaped eyes and the wrinkles at the corner that seem most familiar. I’m tempted to strike up a conversation just to hear the sound of her voice.
I know I wouldn’t hear the lilt or the words I expect. It’s been almost exactly thirty-five years since I heard it, but I’m certain I’d recognize her voice.
I used to catch glimpses, shadows really, and find myself asking “what if?” even as I accepted the impossibility.
Now I’m right beside her, sneaking surreptitious glances, and I see she looks nothing like Mom after all. But those moments, they were sweet. The remembering and the longing.
I don’t believe I’ll ever stop missing her.