Meeting My Mother in Paris

I fulfilled a lifelong dream and bought my ticket to Paris. Sitting at the wrought iron table, wobbly on red, I people watched. It’s what one does there; I knew it from books and movies. Another face, viewed across a few tables, looked over at me and double-took. I did too. It was like looking in a mirror. Glancing down I noticed her book, the same as mine. Glancing up, I said to her, “Mama?” Her voice, echoing mine, “Sunshine?”

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