Mirror Image

BTW, my friend Anna wrote, my daughter and I want to see your fanciful jacket.

And since today is a day in which no one is pressing, nothing is pushing, my mind is unspooling, and my thoughts are easy, I grabbed my camera, went upstairs, and stood before the only mirror in this house that is bigger than 12 inches by 12 inches. I actually never see myself from head to toe, which is probably a good thing. But at least the jacket is short, and I could snap this picture.

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Reflected Out

Her kind of beauty I could live with. The wide open canvas of her eyes, the words she already holds to herself, the liberal adornments of pink: I am a girl, I am to be seen, I will not tell you everything. Earrings in a drawer somewhere, or hanging on a tree. The polishing of soul.

An hour ago, at the dance studio, I became too aware of mirrors, of me in mirrors, of life passing. I became too aware, and I stopped—unable, really, to keep on dancing, to make a pretense of it. I wanted more than I was just then. I wanted more time.

Home alone now, I remember this child. How she turned so freely, did not blink.

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