This morning, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw my mom. I turned to get a better look. Same almost bob haircut, steel gray with still quite a bit of brown (the genetics that allow me to not have dyed my hair yet), slight frame, tiny. I stood still on the platform and almost called out "Mommy?"
And then I started softly repeating to myself ... She's dead Heather, she's dead ... It's not your mother ... She's dead. After this registered, I went on my way.
I've seen her once or twice before in my old store. Her haircut and body type must be common for women of a certain age. The last time, she was so painfully similar, I almost touched the poor, old woman to see if she was real. Thankfully, I removed myself from the sales floor for a while in order to restrain myself and not give her an aneurysm. But I was shot for the rest of the day. Useless to the living.