Hands just like mine. Same slender fingers and delicate slight of touch as she pours the water from the kettle, making me a cuppa.
Our shape from behind; slim shoulders and long neck. Similar height. Silhouettes in twin when shadows fall.
My mother. My body. A younger crop of the older seed; both related at birth separated by life, until now.
She was my age when she was forced to give me up. At least that’s what the adoption agency tells me.
She turns and I sense the magnetic curve of her smile. But I’m far too overwhelmed to look myself in the face. Anywhere but there – the brown tiled floor, the scratched enamel fridge door, her trembling hand outstretched towards mine.
Yes her hand, now only inches away, reaching to finally touch me again for the first time.