She had dark thick hair and quick hazel eyes; she could smile and shout at the same time.
With a chubby finger I would trace the lines around her eyes and make up stories about the moles on her chin.
She would sit with me and stare into my face. "What do you see Janey?" she asked me once.
"I see you, mammy, you have brown dots on your eye," I whispered back.
"They are the stains of the past," she told me as she cupped my face close.
The stains of her past could have been cleansed, I could have washed them with her in our old age - but she went away and died too young, I was too young, I miss telling stories about her face.
I am a mum, I trace the shape of my daughter's face with my wrinkled fingers and I get to tell her wondrous stories about the moles on her chin; she has brown dots on her eyes, they aren't blemishes though.
They are stars passed down by a woman who mistook them for stains.
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