Hole of Veracity
By: Anjenette S. Silvano Photograph by: Harold Altamera
T
he water is never enough. Just when I can almost see my face, when my eyes and my nose and my mouth are about to settle into a picture I can remember, a pebble landed to the surface of the pond into my reflection and I break into abstract pieces. It makes sense to me because I’m curious about what people see when they look at me. “How do I look?” I asked Mother. “I wouldn’t recognize myself unless I was sitting beside that pond.” “You are… you.” She smiled at me and walked away. But what did “you” mean? I knew my hands very well. I memorized them when I trim my nails. I spread my fingers and press them into wet soil to see the shape they leave. Once I tried to do that with my head, but all I got was a
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