Matilda was all angles and elbows.
By the time she was eighteen she stood every bit of the six feet two inches she had clearly inherited from her Nordic father, and that was with with her shoulders slumped slightly forward in an attempt to hide some of her height.
Many a night alone in her room, perched awkwardly on the little pink tufted bench that sat in front of her dear departed mothers vanity, she would sit, back arched over knobby knees leaning forward in an attempt to fit all of herself into it’s etched oval mirror, and look into her own bright green eyes as they peered back at her.
Whereas there was no question she had inherited her height from her father, her eyes were indeed her mothers eyes. Her smooth alabaster skin. The rosy glow in her cheeks. The perfect cupids bow of her lips, all mirrored her the memory of her sainted Irish mother.
And there, in that moment, she would feel a swell of pride, seeing herself as the rare beauty she really was.
“My sweet Irish rose”, she would hear, in her mothers soft brogue, “all softness and beauty atop a tall Nordic stem.”
Inspired by Susan’s Sunday Photo Fiction June 16, 2019 although to late for the party, I like where the prompt took me enough to post it….