Hole of Veracity

By: Anjenette S. Silvano Photograph by: Harold Altamera

The 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

big shallow hole and dirty hair. I knew the color of my arms, the bottom of my feet, and the front of my body. If I stretched my tongue I could see its pink tip. If a tried to look at my nose I could only see a blur image. “Tell me about my face,” I turned to Mother while she was fixing my hair one morning. She studied me with confusion. “What about it?” “Is it wrinkled like Grandmother’s, or round as a coconut? Are my eyes are shinning with happiness like Father’s or innocent like yours?” “I don’t think so. To me you have always been yourself, different from anyone else.” She said convincing me with her words. I traced the line of her chin. Mine was smaller, pointer. I followed her lips with one thumb, my own with the other. “Your mouth is wider,” I said, unhappy with myself. “You silly, that’s because I’m smiling,” Mother said. I mimicked her smile and noticed that my mouth was wide, too, and my cheeks were hills on either side. “Now, here.” Mother put my fingers around the tip of my nose. I could feel the air rushing in and out it. Lastly we moved to the ears, and in the dark they were as soft and complicated as the inside of a spiral shell of a snail I always went to the side of the pond. “Our ears are the same,” I told Mother never removing the smile on my face. “Did this help you?” she asked me. “Do you know who you are now?” “Yeah, but not much. I know every part of it a bit but not my whole face.” I confessed sadly. Mother laughed heartily. “There is a way. Look into my eyes,” she

told me.

“Tell me what you see.” I came closer, stared into the dark brown circles, and it was like dragging me into the deepest place I do not know. Suddenly I saw two tiny girls staring back at me. Their faces were clear, their mouths grew wide. They were pretty. “They are the answers to your question.” Mother said. “They are you,

Gem.”