my mother and I looked alike when we were young

By Megan Hoins

 

I like to imagine how she ran
nettle-brushed shins rattling wood planks
shaking dirt free from curls twined
around old ribbon stuck to small fingers

I sprint after her with arms swung out
as though to catch or claim her
but the hem of her uniformed sweater
slips by me wrinkled with shoe polish stains

she glances back at me
her smile black-and-white
a crinkle of yellow at the corners
reminding me of someone from the mirror

I hope
she recognizes me

 

 

About the Author:

Megan Hoins has been a writer since she started tracing the names of authors on books at the ripe young age of four. She’s been publishing essays on memes, internet discourse, and her own life for a much shorter time on Medium, and she was recently published in Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal and Willard and Maple. Megan was also once the editor-in-charge-of-something-or-other for Ursus. Lately, she spends her days playing bagpipes, failing miserably at video games, and eating chocolate and spaghetti (but not at the same time).

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