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From my Mother's House

My mother’s mother died in the spring
of her days. And her daughter did not
remember her face. Her image,
engraved uponmy grandfather’s heart,
was erased from the world of figures
after his death.

Only her mirror remained in the house,
grown deeper with age within its silver
frame. And I, her pale granddaughter,
who do not resemble her, kook into it
today as if into a lake taht hides its
treasures beneath the water.

Deep down, behind my fce, I see a
young woman, pink-cheeked, smiling.
She is wearing a wig. Now she is
hanging a long earring from her ear
lobe, threading it through the tiny
opening in the dainty flesh of her ear

Deep down, behind my face, glows the
clear golden speck of her eyes. And the
mirror carries on the family tradition :
that she was very beautiful.

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