I wonder about her eyebrows.
I wonder if they looked like mine, disheveled and uneven. I wonder if one of them would have grown upward at the edge, imperfectly perfect and matching to me.
Or if they would have been thick like her father’s, dark as night and fighting so hard to meet in the middle of her face.
I don’t think about what her eyes looked like often, or the shape of her mouth. But I wonder about her eyebrows.
I look at her sisters’ faces and I wonder about her eyebrows. Were they similar to theirs? Did she look more like one or the other because of them?
I wonder about her eyebrows and I picture them furrowed the way my oldest daughter’s are when she’s mad. I think about how she would be nearly two years older than her and how many times I would have seen them scrunched in anger by now. Or raised in excitement. Or drooped in disappointment.
I wonder about her eyebrows when I picture her in my head, clinging to the only thing I know about how she looked. I was told she had great eyebrows.
I still don’t regret never actually seeing her face. But I wonder about her eyebrows.