.png)
Is it I that I see?
Or an idea of what could’ve been,
Or better yet, what could be?
Reflections of the past haunt dreams for the future
Enveloping hope with the dark clouds of failure and regret
As I trace over my features
On the cool, slick glass
An abyss of eternal mortality.
I press my nose against the smooth glass
But instead of resistance
I fall into the open lake of uncertainty
An abyss of enteral mortality,
Its border etched in gold
I see my life before my eyes
And there I am, staring at a little girl, 7-years-old
I trace over my younger self’s features
Guiding my finger across my naive, inquisitive eyes
Until I abruptly notice the frailness
And wrinkles, on my very own hand
I glance down, and see the hands of a delicate old woman
They oddly remind me of my Nani’s hands, with her clean nail beds
Dyed with the remnants of weeks-old mehndi,
Her gold-heart ring that she always wears.
I look up again, into the mirror,
And see my own face, with a tear
Slowly slipping out from my eyelash’s grasp
I stare, an infinite number of times into the reflection of my very own eye
A mirror of love, an heirloom of trust,
I shield myself away, turning around to wipe my tears in peace
Then I slowly turn back around, and carefully open my tightly-shut eyes.
And it’s just me, staring at the mirror.
With the memories that never seem to go fully away
I hear the laughter, the chatter,
The all-encompassing happily ever afters.
Of the present, future, and past
For what I see now is not only what lies directly in front of me,
But what has been laid down for this path to have started in the first place,
And the open canvas of life
With an open course to run.
