Monday, 22 July 2019

My Father’s Legacy

by Dianne Moritz

   Skipping home from charm school, I stopped to catch a glimpse of a stranger in the deli’s plate-glass window: teased hair, lips painted fuchsia pink, tweezed eyebrows penciled black — a new me!
   I struck a pose and sauntered on.
   Mother was waiting. “What have you done?” she cried. “Your father’s legacy. Ruined! Go wash your face.”
   That night, I stole the single photograph hidden inside a Sinatra LP, brought my dictionary to bed. I gazed into my father’s eyes, ran a finger down his straight nose, across his bushy brows. I fell asleep, his perfect, sculpted lips pressed lightly to my own.

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