You look just like your mother with a permanent smile, permanent laughter, permanent joy. And
eternal maturity. Eternity of knowing more than you should. Knowing the rolls of fat on your
thigh better than you know the rolling waves of the beachside. Recognizing the doom of the
existing future before the beauty.

Aviva, you start the way you end, as if you knew you had to wrap the extents of your life into a single
newspaper article. Your time was before you, darling, so precious, so succinct.
But you already knew that.
You became a high priestess before the commencement ceremony, a philosopher before the degree.

You look just like your mother, darling, just like your mother.