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Her Blouse

Today I wore her blouse and remember seeing it on her.

Another day I saw her short hair style and compared it to my own.

I can see her powdering her face when I look into my mirror.

Now my cheeks are looking so much like hers.

I reach to lift a grandchild, and see her holding one of mine.

She’s just a touch away you see.

Her hair brushes my cheek when I push back the wisps from around my face.

I feel a tear run down and see the sadness on her face.

Oh don’t cry daughter,” she would say. And now I too speak the words.

She turns her head as I turn mine.

When my daughter smiles it’s something like it used to be when I smiled on her.

Reflections running fast through the traces of my mind:

The touch of her blouse, and the way she fastens buttons with aged hands that now resemble mine.

Pictures everywhere, but only part of what I know.

Memories in the shadows of my thoughts around the corner:

How she puts her lipstick on as if she were a model, how she sighs or combs her hair.

Her soft touch, her smile –they have not gone away because as I look around and see them in places I never dreamed to look.

My picture book, the way she keeps in touch.

I cannot get away too far until she brings me back again.

Not a greeting or good-bye, but just around the corner of my eye

She’s watching me you see while I am watching her.

Rosemary Grant



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