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  • I look at the picture constantly. I analyze every angle.
    I look at him mostly.
    When I was younger, I memorized every inch of my mother’s face. I recollect the sad happy eyes, the square jaw, the soft ringlets that cascaded down her shoulder, and the line that appeared between her brow when she became frustrated. I did this every night so I could have a firm image of my mother inside my head. That way when people asked me certain questions about my parents, I would describe them in perfect detail.
    In the picture she looks happy. Her face is glowing; her body language is safe, secure, as she stands next to him. One arm wrapped around his waist. My father’s face is placid, his body massive in comparison to her slender figure. One arm protectively around my mother. Their pose is so natural, so in sync. When I look at the photo, I think of how they felt at that exact moment. What were they thinking before the click of the camera, before the flash of the bulb? Did they still hold each other that way when the picture was taken? Or did they release immediately, almost as if to cast the other off?
    I like to think I look exactly like my father. My mother told me when I was younger, that I had his eyes. The joy I felt to know I had something of my father’s. I ran to the bathroom that morning and stared until my eyes watered. I examined the intensity of the iris, the depth of the pupil, and the shape of the eye.
    After a while however, whenever I looked in the mirror I became afraid. I started to believe that perhaps my father was watching me through my own eyes.
    It worries me sometimes. Who do I see when I look in the mirror? Is it me … or you?
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