Anna

“This is your Grandmother,” you said, lifting a photograph out of the cedar chest. “Tell me when you see it.”

I looked, and looked, and didn’t see a damned thing.

Then you held up my own photograph, and you placed them side by side.

“Do you see it now?”

Sure enough, I was the spitting image of Anna. Same haircut. Same smile. Same chipped tooth. Same plaid dress.

I was afraid and didn’t know why.

“You have the same mannerisms. You hold your head the same way. It’s like looking at my mother.”

Then you told me how your adored your mother … until she met a rich man from the right side of town. How Anna took you on long rambling drives past a certain house … just to show him how beautiful her daughter was. And how Anna left you for another man.

“Yes. You could almost be my mother.”

You turned away, slipped out the door … and in a way you never came back.

I told you I was sorry. A lot. I even apologized for things I didn’t do, but that fucking wall of yours never came down.

How dare you.

How dare you make me the scapegoat for all your mother’s sins – real and imagined.

I was eight years old.

How dare you.

.

in daggers –
the white iris
that never blooms

.

.

.

7 thoughts on “Anna”

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