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My Mother's Hairbrush

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I looked down at your old antique hairbrush. I guess I had sort of modeled my entire existence around the look of that brush, painting my room a light shade of pink to correlate with the cream bristles, wearing light floral prints that mirrored the raised markings on the silver handle. My personality, too, was very light and airy like the colors and patterns I so commonly associated with the brush.

Sometimes I wonder how my life would have been different if you had taken the brush with you when you left and maybe had forgotten something else instead like a sweater or a pair of sneakers. Would I still be the shy wallflower searching for a missing part of her?

It seems sort of odd that an object that you found of so little importance that you didn't even think to take it with you would have such a profound effect on my life. I mean, you took your toothbrush. You took your shampoo. You only left the brush behind- Well, the brush and me.




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