Reflecting

I don't look in the mirror often. I must cop to an aversion to mirrors. I've gone years without knowing if, indeed, I even had a reflection.

It's not as difficult as you might think to go without looking at yourself - I don't use cosmetics and what I do with my hair can hardly be considered "styling". I don't need to see what I'm doing.

From time to time I take a look, just to see what's going on above my ever-lower boobs.

Funny thing...I can't see my eye color. Really. I can look and look, but I can't ever tell what color they are. I have to ask someone else.

Come to think of it, when I bother looking I don't see me. I see my grandfather. I see his eyes staring out into the nowhere, looking at what isn't there, thinking his lonely thoughts, dwelling. I see my grandmother, my Mother's mother, tired smile and high cheeks like the one picture I've seen of her. I see my mother, the set of her mouth, the way the lines form around my eyes when I smile, the stubborn set of her chin. I see a little of my father, mostly in the shape of my body, my shoulders and wrists. I see generations of family, a line back to the beginning, my ancestry looking back at me through eyes that see do much more than what's there.

It's only when I look at my children that I see myself. I see myself in them, characteristics that they can only have gotten from me. I see, in them, bits and pieces of the people I carry with me.

Sometimes people look at Bird or Sprout and tell me they look just like me. Lots of folks voice the opinion that my kids are beautiful. I am biased - of course they are beautiful - they are my mother, my grandmothers, my grandfathers, and on days when I am not too tired or worn in spirit, I'll even own they're a little bit me.

The only mirror I need reflects so much more than my visage...