(no subject)
She has always been told she looks more like her mother than her father. Her mother has brown hair, brown eyes and a similar mischievous look. But there are many distinctions if you look close. Most people don’t. Her hair is a little lighter yellow than her mothers, and it curls up on the edges, twining around her earlobe and sweeping across her forehead, covering parts of her eyes. Her bangs pop up, they don’t lie flat. Years of pinning her hair down still can not hide her obstinate cowlick. Her mother’s hair is straight. Her father’s hair is curly and blond. Her eyes, like her hair, are a little lighter than her mothers. They are hazel in the spring, when the hills bring out the green in everything. Her father’s eyes are blue.
Her mother’s lips are straight and thin, without lipstick they look mean. Her mother proudly envies that her daughter never needs lipstick. Her daughter’s lips form a faint heart in the center. Two arches, a small little pink “m” pointing up to her nose, and a smooth curve across the bottom. She is happy that when people see them together they tell her how much her daughter looks like her. She smiles and pulls her daughter’s shoulder closer to hers in a half embrace. Then sometimes she turns her head and kisses her daughter on her forehead where her cowlick is hidden. Once she looked for cosmic meaning. She asked a psychic why it was her daughter and she had such a close relationship. The psychic said that it was because they had practice. She said that they had been mother and daughter six other times in past lives.
Her father is six feet tall and has flat feet. His daughter is short. He loves her long toes. When she was a baby he would fold them over his index finger, feeling the little grip she would give as she extended them out and around. He saw that she was strong like him. Now, when she visits him, he cooks her dinner while they discuss politics. She tells him about Foucault and he tells her about Fox news. They argue one point for hours while their guests get board and talk among themselves. When they realize that everyone else isn’t having as much fun as they are, they apologize. Their guests laugh and complain about how they are just too much alike. He likes their conversations. He is secretly glad when she wins her point. He is always amazed that from that little baby with the long toes a woman has developed. When he has drunk just enough alcohol, he gets teary eyed and tells his daughter how much she amazes him.
When she looks closely in the mirror she can see the spot on her right nostril where she used to have a nose stud. People don’t notice the little dint that used to be a hole, and people that knew her when she had it have forgotten. When she tells them she used to have a nose ring, they say, ”Really? For how long?” Two years is easily forgotten in comparison to generations of similar noses that turn up at the same spot. She likes the idea that when she is alone looking in the mirror she can see layers of collections of photographs and stories on one canvas. She also likes the idea that when she is seen alone, everything behind the two dimensional hasn’t yet been given meaning; she is the first layer in a collection of layers on a canvas to be.
Her mother’s lips are straight and thin, without lipstick they look mean. Her mother proudly envies that her daughter never needs lipstick. Her daughter’s lips form a faint heart in the center. Two arches, a small little pink “m” pointing up to her nose, and a smooth curve across the bottom. She is happy that when people see them together they tell her how much her daughter looks like her. She smiles and pulls her daughter’s shoulder closer to hers in a half embrace. Then sometimes she turns her head and kisses her daughter on her forehead where her cowlick is hidden. Once she looked for cosmic meaning. She asked a psychic why it was her daughter and she had such a close relationship. The psychic said that it was because they had practice. She said that they had been mother and daughter six other times in past lives.
Her father is six feet tall and has flat feet. His daughter is short. He loves her long toes. When she was a baby he would fold them over his index finger, feeling the little grip she would give as she extended them out and around. He saw that she was strong like him. Now, when she visits him, he cooks her dinner while they discuss politics. She tells him about Foucault and he tells her about Fox news. They argue one point for hours while their guests get board and talk among themselves. When they realize that everyone else isn’t having as much fun as they are, they apologize. Their guests laugh and complain about how they are just too much alike. He likes their conversations. He is secretly glad when she wins her point. He is always amazed that from that little baby with the long toes a woman has developed. When he has drunk just enough alcohol, he gets teary eyed and tells his daughter how much she amazes him.
When she looks closely in the mirror she can see the spot on her right nostril where she used to have a nose stud. People don’t notice the little dint that used to be a hole, and people that knew her when she had it have forgotten. When she tells them she used to have a nose ring, they say, ”Really? For how long?” Two years is easily forgotten in comparison to generations of similar noses that turn up at the same spot. She likes the idea that when she is alone looking in the mirror she can see layers of collections of photographs and stories on one canvas. She also likes the idea that when she is seen alone, everything behind the two dimensional hasn’t yet been given meaning; she is the first layer in a collection of layers on a canvas to be.