Practice Makes Perfect Peyton Harrill

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Deirdre Cunniffe

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When you are younger you won’t get it when they compare the two of you. It’s hard to see the depth of what she gives you when you are still barely big enough to peer over the countertops.

Then, there’s a resemblance, sure. But that is common, expected even. Same hair color, same eyes, but no reason to call The Times. You’ll stand next to each other and unknowingly pull the same face.

Then, one day, you’ll look in the mirror. And she’ll be staring back at you. In your eyes, your smile, the way you hold yourself, your laugh, your cheeks, your nose.

Then, when people compare you two, you’ll smile and nod and understand. And you’ll be so afraid of the day that the tone changes, to one less novel, and more sad. Tinted with a loss, you are afraid of becoming a reminder.

You’ll grow and change and make the places that she gave you your own, but no matter how many times you insist it’s true, You are never taller than she is. The exact same height, down to the half-an-inch.

And your family will laugh because when film comes back ‘in style’, They have to start double checking the captions of pictures, To see if it’s you or her.

The words will always be there, on the lips of every person who knows her, when they meet you, it’s the first thing they say. Because in you, they’ll see so much of her, and so much of what her love does. And each time it will light you up, Your proudest accomplishment.

“You look just like your Mom.”

This piece contains sensitive topics: - Violence - Psychological abuse

Life The Happiest Day of Mommy’s

She’s the perfect housewife, and she lives in the perfect white house with her perfect husband and perfect kids in the perfect neighborhood and everything’s just so perfect and nothing could be better because she’s the perfect housewife, and she lives in the perfect white house with her perfect husband and perfect kids in the perfect neighborhood and everything’s just so perfect and nothing could be better becauseshestheperfecthousewifeandshelives intheperfectwhitehousewithherperfecthusbandandperfectkidsinthe perfectneighborhoodandeverything’sjustsoperfectsoperfect everythingeverythingisperfectperfectperfecperfectperfectperfect

She’s making tuna casserole for dinner tonight.

The oven’s on and she bends over the countertop, imitating the woman she once saw on the billboard during a drive to the grocery store years ago; the advertisement still selfishly sears itself into her memory and she can even recall the exact angle of the woman taking the baking tray out of the oven and the pint of her pastel yellow mitts. She slips the same pair on now and leans over to her left for a kiss on the cheek to no avail.

She smiles at her idiocracy and longing to be loved and she goes upstairs to wake him up from his nap. He must’ve been so tired from work that he had overslept, the poor thing.

“Honey, I made your favorite.” She knocks twice, smiling while imagining how delighted he would be to see her and his dinner personally prepared, then carried upstairs for him. After all, she read once that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach and that a wife’s duty was to satisfy their husbands, and she would not disappoint him. Still holding the tray close to her chest, she waits for a response, a sigh even for anything as long as it meant that she still existed to him. So she just silently stands there, yearning for him to let her in. Of course, he doesn’t and she makes an excuse up in her head for him because everything she did was illogical just like he said and what was she doing there, standing like an idiot anyway? Marley was still at Lesley’s Day-camp for Boys and needed to be picked up at six and Lainey had a playdate long overdue with Mary Lou’s daughter, the one down the street.

Moments before leaving, she sees the lights hurriedly flicker off from the crevice of the door and her suspicions are ignited again, that stupid habit of hers to jump to assumptions and more begrudgingly, accusations of her dearest husband. Ears pressed to the cold surface of the doorframe, she listens intently to confirm or alleviate her doubts and ultimately, the hushed, sensual whispers of two voices concludes the former.

“Are you still sleeping? Oh dear, I’ll just leave it right on your nightstand then.” She mutters to herself, purposely out of earshot to convince herself that she had at least warned him before she barged in. And when she does, the first thing her hands search for is the light switch in the dark, and she feels her ring threaten to slip off her finger once it hits a knob on the wall, revealing a tragic, yet humorous scene straight from a modern-day Latin soap opera unfolding right in front of her. She immediately gasps, dropping the tray and the hot tea spills over the hem of her skirt, dripping to her ankles and temporarily scarring them a fuming red.

Emily Zou