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Seeing My Dead Mom in the Mirror
My biggest grief trigger is my own face.
It’s always fun showing somebody new a picture of my mom. They look at her, then quickly look at me. I wait, watching their gears turn. They look back at the picture, then back at me and say, “Oh my god. You look just like her.”
Yeah. I do. I look just like my dead mom.
My roommate refers to my sister and me as my mom’s clones — as if my dad’s genetics had nothing to do with our existence. (Fun Fact: They do; they just show up in my solid calves and flat feet.) My face, hair, and eyes? All mom.
Most of the time, I view our physical similarities as a compliment. But as Mother’s Day looms in the distance, I can’t help but wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t physically resemble the woman who died less than six years ago.
Because the older I get, the more I remember: my mom is dead.
And it’s not because there’s something pathologically wrong with me. It’s because every birthday I celebrate inches me closer to the time span where I physically knew and was close to my mother, that period between age 30 and age 51. The older I get, the…
