The Edge Of The Mirror

A solitary figure waits at the edge of the mirror, unaware that she is on the verge of vanishing. 

*It's just me awaiting my flu shot, but there was something so forlorn about the image.

Sorrow, Part 2; or, The Map Of Lost Time

You don't have to cry, you tell yourself. It's nothing you haven't suspected for years. There was always a nagging feeling that those interminable nights spent heartsick, defensive, arguing about your own motivations were a waste. But suspecting something is different from having it confirmed. Knowing finally that no amount of your best behavior could have saved you the pain.

All that time spent as your confidence drained away. You'll never get it back. Not the confidence. Not the time. That's why you're crying.

So many years. Being sweet. Being helpful. Supportive through thick and thin (and thinner, as your mother-in-law quipped.) Being an accompaniment. Being less. 

It's a hard thing to swallow, this new reality. So what do you do but retrace your steps, remembering the times when you were only you, not belonging to anyone. Wandering, but not entirely lost.

Perhaps you left something yourself among those bleak and broken streets. Perhaps if you look long enough, you might find it again.