Joris Iven




When I look into the mirror, I look into the eyes of my daughters.

My daughters resemble the woman who bore them.

Like her they are fond of black. And of long dresses and

jewellery. They have the hands of their mother. I no longer

see my daughters, but remember that we recognised

each other in our stories. The shame of a blush

of shame, the cold fear of a cold sweat. We were modest

in what we did left unsaid to each other. My daughters speak

a language that their new father has taught them. They have

adopted new accents. But they still wear the rings, necklaces

and bracelets that they have been given by my mother.

What I remember of my daughters is the silences and the

embraces. The shame when leaving, the fear when

taking leave. My daughters have my hands.

They move like I move. Who told me that I was not happy

this morning? In the early hours my daughters have looked

at me for a long while. And we have exchanged secrets,

as formerly we did parcels under the Christmas tree. As formerly.



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