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.