Her mirror,
A clean slate,
Of crisp reflective pools,
Slanting to her bare yet welcoming walls.
My mirror,
A whiteboard of reminders, notes, and fun,
Hand prints seal the mirror with memories of resting my hand on the surface-- applying stage makeup to my eyes,
Or, perhaps, from tracing my image while singing into a hairspray bottle.
Her bag,
A backpack stuffed orderly with some pens,
Her valued camera(s),
A few paintbrushes.
My bag,
A pink bundle of joy,
Cluttered with my laptop, my vocal book for the latest musical I have pursued,
And my sweat-moistened dance shoes.
Her dreams,
My dreams,
Sit.
Watching us from our mirrors.
Waiting in our bags.
Just an observation: You write a lot of pieces about mirrors.
ReplyDeleteIncredible, Erika! I can only dream of becoming as a good a writer as you are! Everything you write is so amazing, no matter how simple. You are very creative and clever; now I'm starting to realize who this is about. . .
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