Some mornings start like this. I look into the bathroom mirror and I see my mother. I grin, I smile, I move my fringe from left to right and back again. I bare my teeth, turn my head this way and that and still she stares at me. How dare she.
Of the three of us, I am the one resembling her the most. I know I could play her in the movie version of her miserable life.
And then of course, I look in the mirror and I see my age. Things are getting worse. Oh theoretically, I am all for aging, for women showing their true beautiful age and all that crap. But still. I fake it mostly. I race up stairs, hurtle through the rainy forest on my bicycle, dance in my kitchen (on good days), dress up in faded jeans, suede boots, ethnic scarves, chunky silver rings, whatever it takes (and whatever I can manage) but no matter what, my mother looks on, she sits there inside my bones somewhere. I can hear her condescending little tsk tsk noises ringing through me.