Writing club announces contest winners

First Place

“Daughters” by Perle Fwamini

The first daughter looked in the mirror.

Exhaled. Forced her tears to retreat.

She was the oldest, the first of her siblings to reach eighteen. She should have felt excitement. Fear?

Anything.

But she was already an adult long before today. She could still remember how it felt to grow up all in one day, her child body much too small for her new adult self to fit. Nobody helped her.

When she was younger, she liked to play house and pretend her four brothers were her four sons. And then her mother got sick, and she realized that she really was the mother now.

Her mother taught her to make fried rice and plantains. When she got sick, that was the only food she asked for, and the first daughter was the only one who could make it exactly the way she liked.

No one prepared her for that.

The first daughter had a mole. She adored it; it looked just like her mother. None of her brothers had this mole. It was like a secret. Soon she would have no one to share it with.

She wanted a daughter.

The second daughter stands in front of the mirror.

She has her mother’s strong cheekbones, sharp eyes, and stubbornness. She does not share her nose or lips or heavy hands or shrieking voice.

She has the mole, too. It looks just like her mother.

She covers it with makeup.

Her mother told her so much about her history. That her grandmother passed away with illness, that she moved to America when she was pregnant, and that she always wanted a daughter.

She said their mole was like a secret they both shared. But it was more like a burden.

Her mother taught her how to make fried rice and plantains. She used to be amazed at how she never seemed to mind the hot oil, effortlessly flipping food with only her bare hands. She taught her how to sweep, scrub toilet bowls, and to leave out the vacuum after you clean so your husband knows that you did.

Her mother also taught her how to hold on to those you love. And to never tell them how they hurt you, because what if they die the next day?

But the second daughter always thought that was nonsense.

The second daughter shares her mother’s birthday. She had to teach herself how to bake a birthday cake. She taught herself how to light the candles and close her eyes and make a wish. She taught herself how to plug her ears and bite her tears back and never, ever let her voice quaver when speaking to her mom.

She exhales, and forces her tears to retreat.

She studies the mirror. She doesn’t really look any older.

Her birth certificate and passport lies behind her, on her bed, next to her zipped-up suitcase. She is free now.

She wants to be free, but something holds her back.

She realizes that no matter how much she tries to hide the mole or how far away she goes to college she will always look like her mother. It will always be her mother’s voice in her head singing happy birthday, always her mother rocking her to sleep. Always her mother’s face in the mirror staring back at her.

Her throat starts to sting.

She shatters the mirror into pieces. It was distorted anyways, she decides. It never really looked like her.

She doesn’t want any kids. But if she did, she would want a daughter..

The third daughter will look in a mirror.

The third daughter won’t have the mole. She won’t have her grandmother’s nose or eyes or heavy hands or shrieking voice. She won’t share a birthday.

She will look nothing like her mother, or her grandmother. But she will inherit their stubbornness, drive, and their ability to love someone wholly and incomprehensibly.

Her mother will teach her that it’s okay to speak up. That it’s okay to tell the ones you love that they hurt you, and that if they truly love you, they will find ways to make it right.

And she will learn how to cook a damn good plate of fried rice and plantains.

The third daughter will be leaving for university, or trade school, or Europe for her gap year. She will be saying her goodbyes, and her mother, tearfully, will cup her face in her hands, voice quivering as she will realize she has to let go. She will stare into her face, wishing her daughter looked a little more like her. And it will be a strange, rattling feeling.

The third daughter will leave. Her mother will think about the way it felt all those years ago, when it was her turn, and she was free and swore to never look back.

And she will decide that it has been long enough. So she will reach into her pocket, pull out her phone, and dial her mother.

Runner-Up

“Round and Round the Circle” by Alondra Pagan-Galarza

I knew him,

I knew her,

I knew them.

Happiness, joy, laughter.

But they have all left me

Like dandelions seeds

Scattered

in a breath.

When change blows in