Same Handwriting

I borrowed two ibuprofen from a woman

whose name I barely know. She nodded, fine.

The mirror caught me for a second—column

of forehead, jaw—I recognized the line

of it. The water in the sink ran pink

before it cleared. I dried my hands and went.

I know whose face that is. I try not to think

about it on bad days. The afternoon spent

cramped and managing. Then, signing off

a form, I watched the pen make the lowercase

g my mother makes—the loop, the scoff

of the second stroke. Her letter. Her face

in my handwriting.

I held the pen a second.