By Cheryl Morai-Young

When I look directly in the mirror, a ghost of myself looks back. White-haired and pink eyed around the rim, free of make up because it's easier now in pandemic times to not delight and indulge in the little pots of color that could be dipped into and brushed over moisturized eyelids to paint a brighter facade to the world and to myself. The light brown eyes say: I'm tired and weary of this confinement, this plainness of skin — a necessary confinement that keeps me distant and safe. The rest of my face, hidden behind a triple plied, black mask, I can only hope resembles some of what it was before it had to be hidden to keep the virus at bay. The Japanese have a myth that says the face you have now is the face of the person you loved the most in your past life. Maybe with this new old face, incognito and unrecognizable to the world, I was a ninja, who scaled walls at night, freeing coins and jewelry from the wealthy and giving it to the poor. Maybe this disguise made me braver, kinder, more resilient, virtuous even so that I could now when I looked straight on into those tired brown eyes, recognize myself. Who I was, who I will be. And, maybe soon, I will be again. And maybe, now, that's enough.