Shattered Reflections

I used to be the spitting image of him, the other parent, my…father. To even call him that now feels strange, because all connections have been severed by a blade that I still hold tightly in my fist.

These days, I see my mama more and more when I look in the mirror, and my grandmother, too. The face that looks back at me is a tapestry, woven from the parts and pieces of the women who came before me.

I've erased him from me.

The hands of time will do the rest.