At Matosinhos beach I saw a woman.
Hair styled.
Makeup precise.
She could have stepped into a boardroom.
She could have read the news at eight.
She pushed a high‑end pram.
Elevated, expensive, familiar.
The same gear I once used when I was a young mother.
Ink down her forearms.
Ink on her calves.
Ink wrapping her thighs.
Like drawings carved on a cave wall.
Like scripture.
History.
Memory.
Ritual.
Her linen dress split in the wind.
Her thong flashed.
The flash landed in my body.
I wanted her.
I recognised her.