This is not an easy letter to write. I am….not fond of looking too closely at my visage. Things tend to glare back at you harshly. But I’ll try.

To my reflection,

I used to see my father there all the time. As I grew older, and became a mom, I started seeing more of my mother. That dreaded “eleven” showed up between my brows, and I remember crying, thinking how angry it made me look. I paid attention to the mirror less and less, hoping that the person in it would no longer change. But that was futile, because you were there every time I walked past. But I started to see things differently.

I see the grey hair, and I think of the times my children drove me insane with worry.

I see the wrinkles, and think of the laughter they inspired.

I see the bags under my eyes, and remember staying up late with them, watching movies, rubbing tummy aches away, or searching for snakes.

I see chipped nails, and think of them asking for help with projects.

I see stretch marks, and think of the joy in earning them.

And now, every time I look in the mirror, I don’t see age. I see happiness.

At least until a fight breaks out, and the “eleven” comes back.

Sincerely,

The Me in this Universe