flash prose by Jordana Landres
Last summer, I was out getting coffee. A man walked over to me. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said. “It’s just that you look so much like my sister. She died three months ago.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, showed me a picture of a smiling woman. “You see?” he said tenderly. “Just like you.” I looked nothing like her. It didn’t matter. I was what he wanted his sister most to be—standing in front of him, talking with him again. In that moment, proximity was resemblance enough.
