She was small.
She was strong.
She was Southern.
She was educated.
She was gentle.
She was kind.
She was a shopper.
She was a curator of whimsy.
She was doctor.
She was wife.
She was mother.
She was my grandmother.
Flora was her name.

When my sister nonchalantly asked, “Why is this picture of you in the living room?” I found it amusing. How could she mistake her for me?
How silly. How odd. How misguided, but wait…
that nose, that widow’s peak, those lips - I’ve seen them before.
The resemblance is there. My grandmother, young and bright in her white doctor’s coat and me, sitting in my car before service one Sunday. M.D. behind her name; “minister” behind mine. Trailblazers, both of us, I guess.

Flora and Amara, source and tributary.