Natalie May
You two look so alike. I glance at my mother and she glances at me, and we laugh because we’ve never seen it and never will.
My mother is blonde hair and grey-blue eyes. She’s crossfit and book reviews and a bootstraps Southern outlook that slowly dwindles but never dies. Really, she’s home cooking. It’s the only thing I do well as a mother. I never knew why she said that and I never knew why she wept because she couldn’t braid my hair. She planted seeds in our home garden and nurtured them until they grew. Kale for salads and stew, blackberries for scones to be served with butter and tea. Milk and sugar? she would ask, and she scoffed at the mothers who hugged their children before school and painted their daughters’ nails. Teatime was sacred, as were breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All served on time in my mother’s kitchen, where love was owed but like was earned.
Nothing is earned on the rug of my college dorm room; like is a given and love is quickly growing. We can sit for hours in comfortable silence, painting our nails and braiding each other’s hair. Hand-drawn tattoos with the pen my mother gave me. A flower for me, a whole garden for you. They’ll wash off tomorrow but we’ll get real ones when we’re older. When we’re twenty-three and rich off our artsy majors, still friends with a full-grown love that never dies.
Words live forever in my mothers’ closet. We pick outfits together and I take her clothes but she never takes mine. I wish I could wear that shirt. Even at your age I was never that skinny. She says my shoulders are good and narrow. Mine are too broad and I look like a man. Lavender’s my color. Don’t you love your skin? Not a single pore. I could model if I was only taller. And your sister, if she had straighter teeth. She says to moisturize daily, and don’t forget your neck. You can always tell a woman’s age by her neck. I weigh the same as I did on my wedding day. I wear the same shirts I did at fourteen. Sweetie, why are you running on a fractured ankle?
Are you running from me? Come sit down on my rug. I can’t make him love you but I can make you some tea. We’ll laugh until our sides hurt, or enjoy the silence until nothing hurts at all.
I saw my mother in the mirror today. She looked like she liked me but couldn’t force the words out.
It’s a good day because I saw you and it’s a bad day when I don’t. Maybe it’ll wash off tomorrow, but maybe it won’t. Maybe we’ll be twenty-three, the tattoos still on, the braids still in. And we’ll know somebody beautiful has loved our hair and skin.
I saw my mother in the mirror today. I had a bootstraps Southern outlook and a moisturized neck.
I didn’t see you today. Come sit down on my rug. I can’t make you love me but I can make you some tea. Sage is your color. If I grow you a garden will we still grow apart?
I saw my mother in the mirror today. She told me she liked me and hugged me goodnight. But I couldn’t force out the words so I turned off the lights.
Natalie May is a first-year studying Political Science and RTVF. When she’s not furiously typing, she enjoys running, comedy, and playing rugby with Northwestern’s club team.
