My daughter never met my mother. Daily, I watch her walk from her bedroom, down to the end of the hall in our Santa Cruz home, and look at herself. Tilting her head slightly to the right, she fixes her clothes and then brings her face close to the mirror and brushes her cheeks and chin. Then, satisfied, my daughter leaves the house, but her imprint remains there, with my mother and the mirror over the marble-top cabinet.
SANTA CLARA REVIEW
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