Madeline Litty—National Irish American Heritage Month

In honor of the end of National Irish American Heritage Month, Atlantis is publishing works from students with Irish heritage.

When Sunlight Hits a Mirror

My face lotion has sunscreen in it, and when applied
every morning, I think of my mother.
The long sleeved swim shirts she made my sister and I wear
when we went to the beach. Her voice from the shore
calling, Reapply! And then pulling us out of the water.
We complained, sat in the shade with our mother–gloves on,
water shoes over socks, towel covering her knees. My mother
is allergic to the sun and her own reflection–
late onset allergy from sometime in her twenties. In the mirror
I remember two months from now I will be twenty-one and waiting
for hives that may never come. For me, ten was too early
for gloves outside, but I learned to avoid the mirrors. Maybe it was her
mother who passed it down, but out of five sisters, my mother
is the only one who can’t set foot outside without–Where
are my driving gloves? We found pairs years later in the stomach,
eaten by dad’s new dog. When I apply the lotion, I cringe
at the texture against my skin, but when I look in the mirror
every morning, I think of her: my mother. Her face
becomes my own. Then, I was a child–admired her
even as she taught me how to cringe in the mirror, even as she pulled
me out of the water–her voice an echo, It’s time to reapply.
Come sit in the shade. My mother,
her funny way of caring from a distance. I see her now
with a sun hat on, walking circles in our pool. This morning, my mother
was in the mirror and I stepped through to tell her thank you
for the swim shirts and the sunscreen, this face–
our face. My mother and I.

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Madeline Litty is a twenty-year-old from Laurinburg, North Carolina. She is currently studying dramatic art and screenwriting at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill.