self portrait

She thinks about her, a lot. Often. In a melancholy way, she misses her even though there is nothing to miss. She studies herself–but–not really–herself in the mirror, a conglomeration of dips, and crevices, and orifices that don’t belong to her. There is no origin to this face, no genesis. These features don’t belong to her, not really. She is a blank canvas, an empty vessel made up of a stranger's eyes, and lips, and nose, who can only reflect what she’s been given. But how does one go about existing without feeling like a fraud, an imposter in their own skin? She is still seeking that answer. She seeks it in the unfamiliar-familiar eyes that stare back at her, yet they give nothing away. She seeks it in the sharp curve of her upper lip, inherited from a father and mother she will never know. She seeks it in the shallow bridge of her nose, a reminder of a native country far, far away. There is nothing one can do, nor change, about their beginning, their genesis, their past. And she knows this. For now, she will continue living her silly little life, with these silly little thoughts and hopes and dreams (because we’re all silly), until she recognizes herself. Until she is no longer a reflection of her not-self.

A masked version of her many selves. Her not-self. Shiny, bright, unbothered. A certain unbreakability that she must guard closely to her heart, because if you look too closely you will see the cracks. Like fine China, on the edge of. Her gratitude for the life she was given spills over, like scalding tea, and she is left burning. This burning harbors guilt, settling in the crease between her eyebrows, in the downturn of her lips. Her secret desires for a life that wasn’t meant to be hers crawl beneath her mask, threatening to expose her true self. But she has no true self, not really. It was left behind, and so she had to make someone new. A self that she can recognize, can claim as hers and only hers. She wonders if anyone thinks about her. Does anyone weep for her? Do they cry for her? Even then, they wouldn’t miss her. Only the idea of her.

Mother and Daughter meet for the first time on a Wednesday, or maybe not. In a country far, far away, where the people eat rice and the language is sharp. Ochre cheeks tinged with pink. Tiny, porcelain fingers seek the warmth that is now gone. Almond eyes closed, unaware. If only someone had told this baby to remember this quiet moment. If only babies could remember anything at all. If only. This day, almost twenty years ago, will be forgotten. It was never remembered in the first place. There will come a time when Daughter becomes curious, but there will be no one there to tell her. And so she will attempt to construct this genesis from her mind, yearning for memories that do not exist. Daughter will agonize over this day, a fleeting twenty-four hours that also means everything (at least to her). What-if’s and reveries will pile up like dishes, yet no one will be there to clean them–– to make them shiny again. Though Mother knows, surely, what Daughter doesn’t. That this is the end, but also the beginning. The beginning for her, for Catalina.

coda II - the beginning of a return

It was a cold night–– the heater was off. Dimly lit in her bedroom, Daughter laid awake in her thoughts. She liked to get lost in her thoughts–– feeling like she was enough when really she was not. It saddened her sometimes, to think about her loneliness. But then the heat kicks in, and Daughter becomes warm again–– reminded of the suffocating love that envelops her. It’s the subtle things, the calm thoughts–– where they glow beautifully, where the heater is off.