Echoes of Her Voice

The kitchen light flickers again —

a stutter, a hesitation,

like the pause before my own voice slips

into her shape.

I hear it in the crack of my tone,

sharp as a cold snap in April,

reprimanding a child I love

but cannot argue with.

Shadows pool where she once stood,

a quiet audience to my surprise,

watching her reflection

trace the lines on my face.

This isn’t me, I thought, but it is —

a slow inheritance, heavy as a late winter coat,

buttoned wrong,

and somehow too familiar.