Six Years Ago...
I looked in the mirror and found myself looking into her eyes, which held no secrets, if you knew how to look. I saw the lashes fanning them and saw the ones, which had fallen as she rubbed on watery eyes, eyes in pain, eyes in disbelief, eyes in boredom. I raised my hand to trace the curve of her cheek where tears found new paths everyday, where freckles appeared and smaller wounds came and went without leaving a memory. I saw them turn red in embarrassment and exhilaration. I saw them turn pale whenever she realized someone was mad or someone was hurt or someone forgot something important and it was too late to do something about it. I reached out to feel the invisible creases around her eyes, the lines around her mouth. I looked closely at the shadows beneath them which weren't as dark when life was as simple as kicking of shoes when they got too heavy, throwing off anything that kept her from running faster and faster and higher. I saw the sleepless nights and the early mornings, which came later than normal.
I looked in the mirror and my eyes fell to her lips, slightly parted. Always in wonder, always waiting for the next word to come out. I heard the songs that had passed through those lips, as she held a silver spoon in her tiny hands and lifted her head in childish harmony. I saw the poetry that was spoken on top of a stage in front of dozens of faces, watching and waiting for the girl in pink chiffon to speak. I saw the lips quiver in fear, in sadness, in anger. I saw the opinions, the lies, the apologies, the curses, the compliments, the secrets, the insecurities and every other whispered word and every unspoken word that the lips did or did not utter. I saw the words she shouldn't have said and the words she should have. The words she meant and the words she didn't. I saw her bite her lip and try to stop the words from coming. I saw them fail.
I looked in the mirror and tried to hear what her ears heard. Her voice was always the loudest, even in silence. I listened to the music and the voices and the little noises of everyday that managed to get caught in that tunnel between the ear and the mind. I saw how the ears caught phrases and sentences and lyrics and unintelligible sounds and how she interpreted them to make them real... for her. I saw her enliven as she listened to the laughter and the melodies and the smiling words and the anecdotes. I saw her cringe everytime she heard herself too much and not enough of others. And, I saw her shut her ears when the world became too much. I saw her try, at least. I listened to her thoughts that continuously ran, with conversations between Barbie and Ken, with songs composed on a little piano as the teacher slept, with the sound of birds and the wind and bacon frying and popcorn popping. I listened to her thoughts as she spoke to herself, when there was just one voice but there were exchanges. I listened to her listen to others and I saw her trying to understand them all.
I looked in the mirror and saw her shoulders rise with every breath. I saw the nights when the breathing was labored and the nights when breathing was easy. I saw the times when she tried not to breathe, afraid of the monsters beneath the bed and in the closet, or afraid of waking someone up, afraid of making someone angry. I saw the days she gasped for breath while paralyzed with panic while mortified, or exhausted from running too fast, from laughing too much, from talking too much. I saw her pretend her heart was not pounding when it was, it really was, as some teenage crush walked past her, said hello, took her hand, leaned over to give her a kiss that never really came. I saw her attempts to keep her shoulders steady as every movement seemed vital, as she sat on the sofa with him by her side, hot and cold hands clasped together, in the car with another him looking her in the eye, in a crowd both staring from far away, in dreams clouded, foggy, surreal, unreal.
I looked in the mirror and saw a woman, or someone trying to be a woman. I saw cheeks being painted, lashes being curled, shadowed eyes, combed hair. I saw clothes being thrown haplessly around, trying to find the "right" one. I saw shoes being kicked off and hair clips being torn off as mascara ran down one cheek and brushed onto the back of one hand. I saw stocking run and heels break. I saw nails chipping and lips chapping. I saw hair falling to the ground as sharp objects sliced through the unruly waves. I felt the sticky liquids, which tried to hold them down and the heat that blew them dry. I felt the desperation to change, to become "like others" so that they would like looking at her and so she wouldn't be invisible anymore. And, then the stronger, braver determination to never change that way and to never become common. I saw her find a mixture of colors and fabrics and pots and pans to make herself look like herself.... only better.
I looked in the mirror and reached for her brow, which her fingers always seemed to find when she was struggling for control when someone shouted, when someone saw what was wrong and not what was right, when something seemed impossible or too much. I looked down at the fingers that counted days and moments, waiting for life to happen, waiting for a mother to notice, for a father to speak, for a sister to understand and for a brother to grow. Waiting for friends to accept, for people to approve, for judges to turn and nod and agree. Waiting for grades to come, for opportunities to come, for bad things to come, for happiness to come, for everything to come, including love.
I watched as the fingers wrote down goals and plans and papers and answers, trying to be right, to be perfect. I watched as it wrote down prose and poetry and notes and letters and stars, circles, mermaids and rainbows. I looked at the tapered nails and heard them tap impatiently, wipe brusquely, dig painfully and scratch noiselessly on surfaces, on skin, on glass, on keys and on paper. I looked back at that brow, plucked mercilessly, raised strategically, and lowered humbly. I saw her use them both as weapons, when nothing else worked and use them as something else when everything did.
I looked in the mirror and watch her lift her hands to mine, palms open. I saw the hands, which have held them and the hands, which let them go. I saw them wipe tears, stifle laughter. I saw how it caressed those she loved and how she hurt them as well. I saw them get dirty, with mud and grass and ice cream and chocolate. I saw them washed again and again and saw them find ways to be dirtied by charcoal or sand or ink or perspiration. I saw them slathered with lotion and callused with writing and climbing and rubbing on jeans when she was nervous and catching slow balls which didn't seem so slow when they hit her breasts when she failed to catch them. I looked down at her feet and saw that they weren't very pretty, but they brought her to beautiful places and helped her find her way. Even in the dark. Even when it was slippery. They made her fall but also kept her standing.
I looked in the mirror and traced her arms, with the wispy hairs resting upon her skin which was always too tan or too yellow or too gray and seldom just right, hiding the green veins leading to the backs of her hands which she thought were pretty. I saw how well the arms hugged and how well they pushed away. I traced the waist that came and went as the pounds went up and down and traced the hips that never disappeared no matter what. I saw them swivel and stiffen depending on who was watching. I traced her belly up to her breasts, which reminded her she was a woman every time and reminded her of the children she wants to someday carry inside of her and cradle beneath them. I saw her cram her body into clothes, which were too small and too big and rarely just right. I saw her pinch and prod and hope and pray that they stop growing or keep growing, and saw her annoyed when they did, but all the wrong ones.
I looked in the mirror and tried to see all her faces that I saw all at once but as I recognized her now, the sheen of the hair, the curve of the jaw, the bridge of the nose, the tint of teeth, I could only come up with one.
And, every other face lay beneath it, unseen, but felt. Very much felt. Never forgotten.
I looked in the mirror and my eyes fell to her lips, slightly parted. Always in wonder, always waiting for the next word to come out. I heard the songs that had passed through those lips, as she held a silver spoon in her tiny hands and lifted her head in childish harmony. I saw the poetry that was spoken on top of a stage in front of dozens of faces, watching and waiting for the girl in pink chiffon to speak. I saw the lips quiver in fear, in sadness, in anger. I saw the opinions, the lies, the apologies, the curses, the compliments, the secrets, the insecurities and every other whispered word and every unspoken word that the lips did or did not utter. I saw the words she shouldn't have said and the words she should have. The words she meant and the words she didn't. I saw her bite her lip and try to stop the words from coming. I saw them fail.
I looked in the mirror and tried to hear what her ears heard. Her voice was always the loudest, even in silence. I listened to the music and the voices and the little noises of everyday that managed to get caught in that tunnel between the ear and the mind. I saw how the ears caught phrases and sentences and lyrics and unintelligible sounds and how she interpreted them to make them real... for her. I saw her enliven as she listened to the laughter and the melodies and the smiling words and the anecdotes. I saw her cringe everytime she heard herself too much and not enough of others. And, I saw her shut her ears when the world became too much. I saw her try, at least. I listened to her thoughts that continuously ran, with conversations between Barbie and Ken, with songs composed on a little piano as the teacher slept, with the sound of birds and the wind and bacon frying and popcorn popping. I listened to her thoughts as she spoke to herself, when there was just one voice but there were exchanges. I listened to her listen to others and I saw her trying to understand them all.
I looked in the mirror and saw her shoulders rise with every breath. I saw the nights when the breathing was labored and the nights when breathing was easy. I saw the times when she tried not to breathe, afraid of the monsters beneath the bed and in the closet, or afraid of waking someone up, afraid of making someone angry. I saw the days she gasped for breath while paralyzed with panic while mortified, or exhausted from running too fast, from laughing too much, from talking too much. I saw her pretend her heart was not pounding when it was, it really was, as some teenage crush walked past her, said hello, took her hand, leaned over to give her a kiss that never really came. I saw her attempts to keep her shoulders steady as every movement seemed vital, as she sat on the sofa with him by her side, hot and cold hands clasped together, in the car with another him looking her in the eye, in a crowd both staring from far away, in dreams clouded, foggy, surreal, unreal.
I looked in the mirror and saw a woman, or someone trying to be a woman. I saw cheeks being painted, lashes being curled, shadowed eyes, combed hair. I saw clothes being thrown haplessly around, trying to find the "right" one. I saw shoes being kicked off and hair clips being torn off as mascara ran down one cheek and brushed onto the back of one hand. I saw stocking run and heels break. I saw nails chipping and lips chapping. I saw hair falling to the ground as sharp objects sliced through the unruly waves. I felt the sticky liquids, which tried to hold them down and the heat that blew them dry. I felt the desperation to change, to become "like others" so that they would like looking at her and so she wouldn't be invisible anymore. And, then the stronger, braver determination to never change that way and to never become common. I saw her find a mixture of colors and fabrics and pots and pans to make herself look like herself.... only better.
I looked in the mirror and reached for her brow, which her fingers always seemed to find when she was struggling for control when someone shouted, when someone saw what was wrong and not what was right, when something seemed impossible or too much. I looked down at the fingers that counted days and moments, waiting for life to happen, waiting for a mother to notice, for a father to speak, for a sister to understand and for a brother to grow. Waiting for friends to accept, for people to approve, for judges to turn and nod and agree. Waiting for grades to come, for opportunities to come, for bad things to come, for happiness to come, for everything to come, including love.
I watched as the fingers wrote down goals and plans and papers and answers, trying to be right, to be perfect. I watched as it wrote down prose and poetry and notes and letters and stars, circles, mermaids and rainbows. I looked at the tapered nails and heard them tap impatiently, wipe brusquely, dig painfully and scratch noiselessly on surfaces, on skin, on glass, on keys and on paper. I looked back at that brow, plucked mercilessly, raised strategically, and lowered humbly. I saw her use them both as weapons, when nothing else worked and use them as something else when everything did.
I looked in the mirror and watch her lift her hands to mine, palms open. I saw the hands, which have held them and the hands, which let them go. I saw them wipe tears, stifle laughter. I saw how it caressed those she loved and how she hurt them as well. I saw them get dirty, with mud and grass and ice cream and chocolate. I saw them washed again and again and saw them find ways to be dirtied by charcoal or sand or ink or perspiration. I saw them slathered with lotion and callused with writing and climbing and rubbing on jeans when she was nervous and catching slow balls which didn't seem so slow when they hit her breasts when she failed to catch them. I looked down at her feet and saw that they weren't very pretty, but they brought her to beautiful places and helped her find her way. Even in the dark. Even when it was slippery. They made her fall but also kept her standing.
I looked in the mirror and traced her arms, with the wispy hairs resting upon her skin which was always too tan or too yellow or too gray and seldom just right, hiding the green veins leading to the backs of her hands which she thought were pretty. I saw how well the arms hugged and how well they pushed away. I traced the waist that came and went as the pounds went up and down and traced the hips that never disappeared no matter what. I saw them swivel and stiffen depending on who was watching. I traced her belly up to her breasts, which reminded her she was a woman every time and reminded her of the children she wants to someday carry inside of her and cradle beneath them. I saw her cram her body into clothes, which were too small and too big and rarely just right. I saw her pinch and prod and hope and pray that they stop growing or keep growing, and saw her annoyed when they did, but all the wrong ones.
I looked in the mirror and tried to see all her faces that I saw all at once but as I recognized her now, the sheen of the hair, the curve of the jaw, the bridge of the nose, the tint of teeth, I could only come up with one.
And, every other face lay beneath it, unseen, but felt. Very much felt. Never forgotten.