All that matters

I snatched the hand mirror from the counter, hoping to identify the woman in its reflection. Flipping the glass to the 10x magnified side, I watched her pupils criss-cross the surface, searching the silvered window into her soul. Nothing, no recognition.

That hazel speck in the blue iris- I knew that, it was my trademark. An ivory slice thought the right eyebrow - that was from not ducking fast enough in 8th grade sparring with my Jui-jitsu partner. The cleft in the chin- I always hated that. Coily springs of untamed hair sprouting from the temples, all of it belonged to me.

Slamming down the handle, I fractured the glass into splinters, casting a prism of 100 eyes, staring back, judging, demanding to be acknowledged, addressed, affirmed - if not appreciated. It seemed alien, watching all of those eyes blinking simultaneously, like I had pieces of my soul breaking free, but unwilling to leave the prison of my mind. Revulsed, I ripped my gaze from the shattered looking glass, and was immediately pinned by a stare from the scowling woman peering through the vanity over the sink. Turning to escape, I reached my hand to the knob of the bathroom door and was met with the full-length visage hanging there, confronting me with my duplicate in reverse. My duplicate?

Whoever that was looking back at me in the mirror, it certainly wasn’t me.

I had grown accustomed to a defiant chin - hers was softened with age. From age 7, I had a hard jaw - set in determination, hers? It was slack and defeated, as if heavy marbles swirled over the tongue, grinding the teeth down over time. Capable hands had been gnarled and leathered from gripping too hard. The swan-like neck had melted into a mountain of sloping flesh, burdened from the weight of my world, and any other world that shared my orbit of compassion.

Surely this had been an evolution over time? Had I missed the daily decomposition for so long that now I couldn't recognize my own reflection? It was like some other creature had stuffed herself into my skin and was masquerading as me around town. Why hadn't anyone noticed? Was it really that hard to see? or harder to say?

Perhaps acknowledging the losing battle in me made it more difficult to accept the defeat that they had seen in their mirrors also. Maybe, there had been a mutually beneficial silent agreement to overlook the toils of war. I wouldn't know, I certainly hadn't been present when that decision was being made because her presence this morning had come as an unhappy surprise.

My pitiful onslaught was interrupted by an invasion of my privacy - the daily uninvited intrusion by my 5-year old. The fact that the bathroom door was closed meant nothing to her, she barged in every day without fail. It was the most annoying, most welcomed part of my day.

"Good morning, cup. Overflowing today?"

With her infectious giggle, she repeated our morning routine with her squeaky voice. "I runneth over."

"Delighted to hear it, my sweet."

She poked my protruding belly. I grunted, noticing that it too had devolved into a more cushioned form of itself than I had remembered.

"Don't," I chastised her softly, not being in the form to suck it in or stand taller to make it appear less obvious.

"Don't what?" she poked again.

"Don't poke my blobby belly, " I swished her finger away, mid-third-poke.

Snarling her lip, she spat back, "You don't!"

"Don't what?" I snickered, leaning down on my knee to her eye level.

"Don't be mean to my favorite place," huffing, she crossed her arms. It was as if I had called her a name or mocked her own appearance.

I tugged her hand and pulled her from the bathroom so I didn't have to be assaulted by the multiple images and angles of my disappointing self. "Favorite place, huh?"

Trotting along after me, she caught up and poked my belly again. "Mm hmm. one of them. I have three," her head bounced in affirmation throwing ringlets of strawberry- blond clouds of hair to and fro. Pudgy fingers tapped her other hand, "maybe four."

I swung her onto the chipped kitchen counter, her legs dangling as I started the coffee machine. "Hmm, four is a lot of favorite places." I wasn't very interested. Instead, I focused rather intently on starting my daily, intricate process of forgetting what I had remembered.

Unfettered by my boredom, she climbed up to her knees and then stood before me, matching my height, demanding my attention.

"Yep. Four. Boop!" she poked my little Buddha belly again. I groaned louder, but she continued. "That one is where I hear you laugh best, when I press my face right in the middle."

"This one. BOOP!" she squeezed my fleshy shoulders. "That's where I sleep best after the long long long looooooong days shopping. It's soft like a pillow."

I laughed, it was indeed soft, and I supposed it was better than tough muscles and angular bones when it came to naptime.

Pulling my hand to her face, she used it to stroke her forehead lightly. "And this - calms me when I'm scared." Then she used my finger as a paintbrush across her own little nail beds, "And paints my nails when I wanna be pretty." Shoving my hand under her armpits, she shouted "AND TICKLES ME!!!"

I laughed harder at this little sprite who was my undoing. Leaning toward her, I pulled the other hand free of the coffee bag and continued to tickle properly until she was cackling and breathless. She infected me with her joy, and my own mixed with hers in a symphony of silliness.

"Stop!" she gasped. "Stooooppppppp! I have to tell you four!"

I paused, not sure if she was telling the truth or simply halting my onslaught of tickle torture.

Her hands reached up to the sides of my face, pinching the crow's feet into more defined wrinkles. I was sure the pressure of her hands were carving them into indelible creases, never to be removed by laser or creams or miracle cures again.

"These. I like these the best."

"Wrinkles!?"

"If that's what they're called," she shrugged, "then yep, wrinkles. Cuz when you laugh and really mean it, your cheeks push them deep into your face, and your face gets round like a sunshine and your eyes turn into little upside down moons. Then, I know you're happy. Like you are right now. BOOOOOOP." She finished her monologue by pressing her tiny fingers into my nose, squishing it to the side.

I pulled her into my chest, and loved her with my whole heart. It didn't matter what I saw, or what others saw. I was defined by love from these 5-year old eyes that saw all that mattered.

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