The mirror shows her grace. She sees lines and circles, symptoms of fatigue. The mirror shows her softness. She sees curves she'd hoped to quell, gravity in effect. The mirror shows her beauty but all she sees are the lowering remnants of a tired life.
The bathtub is a portal. She opens it with water, bubbles and perfumes. Under the water, the world is only clouds in her ears and warmth at her hips. She is cradled in a womb of her making. She experiences weightlessness and freedom.
She hangs an iron cauldron in her fireplace. She crumbles herbs and whispers chants. She plays at magic as if she believes it will save her from what she sees in the mirror. She's never seen what the mirror shows.
Magic exists, but not where she seeks it. It is in truth and self-acceptance. It is in the level face of a mirror reflecting "real" and "now."
She wanders about her space, sinks beneath the water, surfaces on thoughts of "better" and "try," but never on the wings of hope which is a shame. Because one feather of hope in that cauldron and the veil would be lifted. She would find herself in the mirror. She would see.
