The Wanderer

I studied my face anxiously in the mirror, scrutinizing it, like I expected something to magically change as I watched my reflection. Lips pursed, I brushed the hair out of my eyes, and kept looking. I do this every now and again, not out of vanity, but simply as a thoughtful exercise. As if my reflection could speak, and talk back to me, telling me who I am, right now, at precisely this moment in time.

My parents see a woman now when they look at me, and I look back at myself and wonder how they see that change in me. Yes, most of my girlish angular gawkiness is gone, my face has subtly changed, a little rounder, a little fuller. But I still see so much of the girl. I remember standing in front of the mirror at age nine, thirteen, sixteen, seventeen, capturing me in my mind’s…

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