Half-Transparent by Maureen Scott Harris

I caught sight of myself last night, reflected in the kitchen window,
half-transparent, floating among the backyard cedars, plates
of lamb chops and asparagus in my hands. Intrigued
I paused as another room emerged, a scene from a black and
white movie, blurring my image. I almost recognized
my mother in her kitchen, wearing a frilled apron, hair pulled
behind her neck the way it was when I was little. She was
cracking eggs into a frying pan and didn’t notice me, watching.

The white enamel of her stove shone in the dark. She’s been dead
more than twenty years. What had I been thinking out there among
the cedars? Did she want something of me? I understood her life
was still going on, somewhere. She didn’t need me to look
after her any longer. The cedars wavered in the wind erasing
my reflection. I carried the plates into the dining room and we ate.

— from Juniper Volume 7, Issue 3