She had dark thick hair and quick hazel eyes; she could smile and shout at the
With a chubby finger I would trace the lines around her eyes and make up
stories about the moles on her chin.
She would sit with me and stare into my face. "What do you see
Janey?" she asked me once.
"I see you, mammy, you have brown dots on your eye," I whispered
"They are the stains of the past," she told me as she cupped my face
The stains of her past could have been cleansed, I could have washed them with
her in our old age - but she went away and died too young, I was too young, I
miss telling stories about her face.
I am a mum, I trace the shape of my daughter's face with my wrinkled fingers
and I get to tell her wondrous stories about the moles on her chin; she has
brown dots on her eyes, they aren't blemishes though.
They are stars passed down by a woman who mistook them for stains.
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Posted at 12:06 am by janeygodley