[Prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/ .]
There was just something about her face that I couldn’t quite place. Was it the curl of her honey blonde hair, the twist of her lips in that carefree smile? The way that she’d glance around every once in a while? Or was it the way she talked, that lithe elongating of vowels that spoke of southern ties still binding her the land of grits and rundown cotton plantations? Then again, her eyes were an unusual shade of blue—haint blue if specifics be required; that color I’d only seen a handful of times.
Or maybe it was the fact that this woman, not much older than me, looked exactly like my mother in an hold photograph I kept in my wallet.