Tutor Writing Challenge! [May]

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Daphne took pride in the fact that she was the mirror image of her daughter. They had similar facial structures, the same smile - when she wasn't glowering, that was - and the same reverence for everything refined and beautiful. Sure, Lilith had a tendency to resort to drawing on herself much like a toddler, and she was much more experimental than Daphne may have liked, but the eye was there, waiting to open and absorb the light.
She'd adored having two children, getting the chance to mold not one, but both of her daughters to be the jewels of the Reagan line, children that she would be proud to call her own. So when Calista fell ill, Daphne panicked. What would it look like, to have a sick child who didn't get better no matter what you tried? Her pale cheeks struck fear into Daphne's heart, not only because they no longer matched the rosy hue in their family photos, but also because she feared that the color would never return. What kind of mother would she be with a dead daughter, their nuclear family of four thrown off balance and spinning on its head?
Fortunately, her family didn't see it as a failure to lose a child before she had ever reached her prime - not like losing a child to the arena - they just found it extremely sad. "Oh, we're so sorry for you," they'd say, and she'd smile like she hadn't spent the previous night silently weeping into her pillow. She'd smile like she tried her hardest, which was true, but it didn't feel like enough. And in Daphne's grief, Lilith became everything that Calista was supposed to be and never was, both their souls merged into one, although to Lilith it may have felt more like a ghost following her.
They quarreled a lot. It was to be expected, wasn't it? Daphne wanted what Lilith didn't want to - couldn't - provide. Her daughter would never abandon the family, she knew that, but she didn't seem to care for their reputation either, and it made Daphne furious. Lilith didn't show up on time. She prioritized witticisms over biting her tongue to keep the peace. She was everything Daphne was not, had tried not to be. Her mirror image was distorted like a funhouse and it wouldn't be possible to correct the reflection. It made her feel angry, and embarrassed, and lost. What kind of mother was she?
Daphne took pride in raising her daughter into someone worth admiring. To an outsider, it might seem like she was doing a great job. Yet, deep down, she wondered if Lilith was proud of her too. What worth did the praise have if she could barely make eye contact with her own daughter without the latter looking away?
She'd stand in the hallway at night, alone, staring at the family portrait on the wall and wondering where she went wrong.

Yani Izar

Yani was tucked into one of the wash basins, head back, her sister’s hands brushing through her curls as she soaked. Sofía hummed along with the bolero echoing out the speakers of the wooden radio along the shelf behind her. She tapped Yani’s shoulders and pushed forward, a terry cloth towel tossed over her face and scrubbed through her locks to dry. This was her favorite part, when Sofía would spend a few minutes creating a headwrap to let her younger sister’s hair dry.

She’d walk over to the cabinet, fill up a goblet of purple grape juice and let Yani join the other Izar ladies of the salon. Sitting in one of the three stylist chairs, Yani would let her legs dangle out from underneath the bib that had kept her overalls pristine, sometimes shimmying to give the chair a good spin in a circle.

A forest green awning fluttered in the evening breeze out front, The Little Sparrow (Sofía’s childhood nickname) splashed in white cursive along the top. Wedged between a hardware store and a tailor, the railroad thin shop had a single long window and a heavy wooden door. Late that spring evening, when the sign hanging in the window had been slipped from open to closed, the shop came alive with another salon of sorts.

An open invitation went out to the ladies of Sofía’s life. Yani wasn’t sure who had done the organizing, though if she had to guess it’d been her mother.

There had been an afternoon when Sofía had spent time waxing over how slow business was and munching on potatoes fried in olive oil and rosemary. When she’d gone, Yani could swear she could see the gears in her mother’s head turn. Scrubbing away at the dishes that echoed out clinks from the sink, it hadn’t been long after that when Yani’s was getting her hair trimmed ever few weeks. Not that the young girl minded, she liked her hair shorter and free from tangling in her face.

She would admit that when the salon first opened, Yani had been more interested in the chocolate shavings her sister had offered as a treat to customers than anything else. There was the usual brouhaha, her cousins squeezing so tightly into the little space she thought she might wind up trampled under their boots. She’d spent time stacking the little tins of gel on one of the display tables as high as she could while the adults offered her sister a congratulations over a job well done on the shop. Yani had only been keen on seeing Katelyn Persimmon, though she’d not mustered the courage to figure out something interesting she could tell her.

Time wore on and Yani began to look forward to afternoons and evenings with the other women in the salon. Now and again her father would entertain the idea of a fresh styling – Sofía’s latest venture a severe bowl cut that left his hair an organized mess on top – but he said his goodbyes as soon as the sun had gone down and the sign was turned.

She felt as though she was a part of something special, as though her mother and sister trusted her to understand and contribute to the discussion at hand. She mostly sipped her juice through a straw as she listened to the conversations melt between what needed to be taken care of around the homestead, who’s birthday was coming up, or playful jabs at their friends and neighbors in the district.

Somehow as far back as she could remember, it had always been this way. Her aunts and cousins always checking in on one another, joking about time wearing on, and looking back at who they used to be. Their roots grew together, settled the earth and left Yani wondering where they'd found such lightness. 

All of them had seen loss, some more than others. Still, there was a gentle rhythm to their lives that pressed through hardship and on to another sunrise. 

How did they do it?

When she glanced at the women who raised her, Yani couldn’t help but have her heart feel filled to the brim.

Even if they’d seen too many funerals, here they existed, they floated. They rose.

She looked at each of them then, holding court across folding chairs and fold-out tables.

Tía Lordes still had a radiance to her eyes, a spark Yani admired because it reminded her of a warm hug in the depths of winter. She was sad, Yani had felt, with the loss of her cousins at the forefront of her mind. Lordes persisted, though. She reminded her that even as hard as it all seemed, maybe strength looked different than the steely physical nature of what the capitol tried to put on a television screen.

Tía Manuela would sometimes offer her a sip of wine. She was a whirlwind, someone who could draw attention with as little effort as opening the front door and setting off the bell perched above. 

She wondered how lucky she’d been to be born an Izar. Where some could’ve seen it as a curse, Yani could only see how her life was more greeting the sunrise than mourning sunsets.

These women held a certain warmth that eluded so many, whether that others lacked the will or had never known it to exist in the first place. But here, as she watched, Yani felt blessed to witness it.

Marisol provided patience, her long years a stretch of memories that dated back to another life, and world. She loved her bisabuela for how little seemed to move her, calm and steady as she was. Her kitchen was a wonderland, they way she spoke a singsong of a language just for them. Her love seemed as vast as the stars above. She could brighten a whole day with a hug and a few gentle whispers. Yani desperately wanted to have the sort of weight Marisol’s words seemed to have.

Nekane felt the most as Yani was – as a bird watched from branches above, offering the faintest of glimmers but still curious. She’d often seen her gardening, the way her hands combed the earth with precision and ease. Someone Yani’d been too shy to have a proper conversation with, but, at some point, hoped to ask what went on in her mind all those hours she tilled the soil.

She took a moment to peel off the bib and step down from her seat. Stepping across the hardwood, she dawdled behind her mother, her hands tracing along the wall as held onto her chair.

These women were her solar system, orbiting and guiding her along as she grew. There were many more little moments, scraped knees and dominos, or chapter books and fireworks, than nights when they’d have to wade through grief. And alongside her was her sun, Emma, all the things she could admire in the rest of them.

Patient hands that had nursed her husband Vasco back to health, just as she lifted and carried Yani in her arms as a toddler. A sense of right and wrong – that there were colors that often ran together, not just black and white – but the most important part was treating others as they wanted to be treated.

She taught her that it was okay to be quiet; she didn’t need to be the loudest in the room, or even garrulous as her father. She could stand on her own two feet, could be sure of herself, and the wisdom she held. And people would see that and respect her for it, rather than begrudge.

“Mamá,” Yani put a hand on Emma’s and grinned.

All this had been Sofía’s dream, and yet – Yani could see what was her mother’s doing. All of them, sitting in the little shop after dark, made her world as bright as it was.

“Te quiero,” She said with a hug. Theirs was a world stronger with each other. Stronger each and every day.