By Anna
This one is cracked and the other is continually covered in smudge marks. Mirrors offer only distortions, anyways. I can still see the main portrait when I squint my eyes and tilt my head: dark hair and dark eyes despite the bright light, one eyebrow askance as if the echo of one too many smirks, and one ear higher than the other – who knows which – so glasses sit askew.
When I gaze into a puddle, is it her staring back at me? On the bus before first light, is she leaning over onto me? Can I reach that one when I turn off my phone screen? “Who is there?” pleads a Narcissus who cannot see. I would rather not look.
Were it not for my love, my reflection would be terrifying, ugly, and unfathomable. When a reflection of doubt met my hesitant eyes, I would quake. My voice would falter and then my lips and throat would slowly tense up. Be it anger or annoyance mirrored back at me, my eyes would close in on themselves and tears would spring up. Even with happiness in the backscatter, my face may not even lighten. I know all this because I have spent years without knowing my love; I have spent years without knowing myself.
She paints on a mask of confidence when I go to work. The eyes sizing me up cannot see past it. She puts up a strong front when I hand out advice, so that others can seek shelter. My nose crinkles when I disagree but she calls upon patience, takes a deep breath, and counts to three. My visage turns an ugly, blotchy red when I cry, so she looks all the way up and wipes my face dry. She draws a smile and her eyes light up when I come home to my companions. When I look in the mirror, that is not what others see. She protects me. We make a good team.