Mother Sister Sandwich

My mother asks again and again if we will see our mother today. You mean your mother, I ask? She’s sure that we have the same mother. And it doesn’t matter if I tell her gently. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the moment we are in. The blue eggshell of the sky. The smile she releases slowly as we eat our Vietnamese sandwiches from the truck parked on Wilshire. What a treat to be with the woman who gave me life but thinks that I’m her sister. For now, we are sisters eating sandwiches, in and out of conversation.

Deirdre Mendoza

03. 7.14