what you borrow and never return

This morning,

pulling on a sleeve,

I felt the skin on the back of my arm

move differently than it used to—

a slight looseness,

a give

that had nothing to do with the shirt.

I looked in the mirror.

The light was harsh,

coming through the bathroom window

at that specific angle

that makes everything true,

and I saw it:

my collarbone

is not my collarbone anymore.

It's my mother's collarbone.

The hollow underneath it,

the way it catches shadow,

the slight protrusion

when I turn my head,

all of it,

borrowed.

I'm the age now

that she was

when I first noticed it on her,

that thin, determined line,

and I remember thinking:

I'll never look like that.

I'll never have that particular sadness

written into my bones.

But here it is,

the sadness,

written into my bones,

and I'm standing in this bathroom

looking at her face

wearing my face,

and I understand now

that I didn't borrow it.

I was always supposed to have it.

It was just waiting

for the right time,

the right light,

the right angle

to become undeniable.