HER SPITTING IMAGE


She could hear them whispering. It did not require a lot of contemplation for her to conclude that they were trying not to disclose their conversation. Their topic of discussion should not be about her, but it was; it indirectly was because try as they may, they could not help but talk about her mother, or rather, her late mother.

As little Karen climbed up the stairs, trying not to disturb the adults with her 6-year-old feet tapping soundlessly on the rugged stairs, she searched her memory. She recalled a scene two-weeks ago when she had picked up on the sorrow in the air.

She had been dropped off by Mrs. Jackson, her neighbor, who had surprisingly accosted her in the car after receiving a text. Karen had been too stubborn and eager to meet her mom who always waited outside the door for her. That day was different. She had felt it even before she had seen it.

Mrs. Jackson had sighed deeply, bowed her head and wept. After a second or two, she turned on the ignition but before she could step on the accelerator, Karen had alighted from the vehicle and ran into the house.

Upon entering the doorway, she had seen her mother in the most uncompromising position ever known to a little girl her age. She was, to plainly put it, dead!

Karen could not remember what she had seen because as the doctors keep telling her dad, she was in shock and had blanked out.

Karen was fine as far as she was concerned. She held her own secrets unknown to the others. As she got to the top of the stairs she made headway to her room. Sitting before the mirror, she tilted it the right way. With a sigh of her own, she lay before it and smiled. It did not take took long before she then cried. Finally wiping her tears away, she silently told herself, “I am my mother’s spitting image”.

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