Her lips are red, too red. Her skirt, too tight. She's different from the other mothers and I'm old enough to know different is bad so I tell my new friend, "No, my mother's dead."
That shuts her up. Problem solved. No one likes to talk about dead mothers.
***
My reflection in the window is smiling back at me as the snow dumps from the sky and I'm sure it's God's work. I wished for a snowstorm and a snowstorm arrives. I'll never doubt his existence again.
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