Recognition

My girls know me.  They know me.  The way my voice rises at a much slower rate than my eyebrow.  The way the hollow of my collar bone smells at the end of the day.  That the speed of my step is exactly 42% faster than theirs, except Eva who could be lapped by a slug on a humid day.  They know how much coffee it takes to make me manageable and that they must always always leave me at least three shrimp from the platter.  They know me because I'm their mama and they know me in a way they can only share with each other.

Sometimes I forget I knew someone like that as well.

This morning I remembered, and it brought me back to her shadow.

I knew her.  And today, from half a country away and two different sides of a problem, we have forgotten each other.

Maybe if I called her "mom" one more time, all this ugly would heal.

If I saw the sharpness of the chin that jabbed my collar the time she hugged me at the airport.

If she said my name maybe I'd hear something different.  Some bit of recognition.  Something that would take the sting out of the last conversation we had.  The last time I knew her.

The gravel of her voice.  The distance in her eyes.  The laugh that showed no real humor.  The sadness in her steps.

My girls would recognize me in a crowd of a hundred brown haired, brown eyed, cranky women simply by the curve of my right cheek.  

Would I recognize her in a room of ten?  Would she know me in a room of three?

And would it matter if we did?

Today I wish I could find out.