Faded

I’m holding this photograph,
of a young woman,
who looks quite like me,
yet her hair is different,
darker, tied up in a bun
and she’s standing in a field
of some now unrecognizable flowers,
somewhere far away from here.
The day is sunny, but she is not,
solemn and somber, she looks at the camera
not a hint of a smile there,
and she’s wearing something grey,
maybe once it had been black
but the photograph has started to fade.
The edges are blurry,
the date on the back smudged,
yet I know her, I know those eyes,
my mother has them too,
and so do I,
we both got them from the solemn woman
who once stood in the field,
but now is nowhere to be seen,
never again,
and the photographs have started to fade,
but the reflection in the mirror is still there,
looking at me, with the same stern mouth
and somber stare.