Bath fresh, I blow-dry my daughters hair on cool setting with a soft brush. Our third time - suspicious of the dryer she twists and turns, and crawls from my lap - a blonde head of damp curls.
Or kinks. Curls I imagine will come. Like my own - which I've straightened in vain like my mother before.
Weather dependent and wayward prone, yet I wish this on my daughter in the hope that - as she grows - she'll resemble me a little more.
We may all be found in the faces of our past. In cheekbones and in smiles. Made of more than we know, a mixture of those who lived before.
I am like my Mum - in looks, in build, in walk. Though fair instead of dark, and burn in the sun where she turns tan.
But I saw myself the other day, like Gran. 30 years old in '51. A tot in a pram on a shopping run. Red hair and curls.
A snapshot on a busy street - a room of people said it looked like me.
I searched afterwards, in the mirror - for Gran. In freckles, in hair, in hands. In the makings of me. To glance her in the mirror would make her easier to keep.
And a black and white snapshot for my daughter to see. The likeness of her mother stood 62 years past in the street... x