There I see the familiar furrow wrinkling itself, wedging itself ever deeper between the two eyebrows, like the head of an axe caught in the century-old stump of an oak.
I examine the crease between the comatose brows, and it shows me unhappiness, an unexplained lifetime of discontent, of stolen dreams and overlooked answers.
I step closer to the reflective image.
There I see the powerful ridges of bone protectively surrounding delicate orbs, guarding the precious organs from harm or intrusion like a rampart circling a fortress.
I examine the tissue-thin skin that folds over the once-vital chromatic irises, the green oculi that used to dance with life, and I am shown that years of tears and belligerence have caused the enveloping skin to become creased and dried into puffy, ugly folds.
I again peer into the looking glass.
There I see the expected colorless lips, pursed tightly together, contracting themselves into unattractive gathers, like the uneven lace ruffles created by an inferior seamstress.
I examine the pair of pale, asymmetrical tubes of skin, the external covering of the mouth, and remember the kisses that once brushed against them, the daggered words that once flowed out of them, the unhappy sighs that once escaped them.
I struggle to see something peaceful in this face, something of merit, of satisfaction, but the reflection is silent, speaking only a language that I cannot decipher or interpret.
I feel a trickle of escaping saline and I regretfully realize...
This is not a mirror. I am looking at the woman who gave birth to me, and as once more I examine the face uncomfortably resting in the intricately decorated funerary box, I search for something...anything. I find nothing.
I turn away, my hands reaching up to my own face. I trace the deep wrinkle between my eyebrows, I feel the saggy skin around my eyes, I touch the blanched, dried lips that surround my mouth. And I search for something...anything.
