I used to look in the mirror and see my father. Now it's my mother who stares back. I'm home for a visit. She's saved every card I've given her over the years. She pushes one into my hand. "Write about this," she says, when things between us were hard. Her fingers smell of rose and cloves, her sweater evidence of the strays she feeds outside. I want to hug her, to say I'm sorry for what's been said or left unsaid, but her eyes, that look I'd once thought challenging, are fierce with love. They tell me she knows.
Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. You can find her on Twitter @KarenCrawford_.