lies in the mirror

You are 55, I say to the woman in the mirror. She stares me dead in the eye and nods, then turns her chin this way and that, as if her face was a prism to catch and transmute light. She shows me the paling lashes, silver wisps sprouting in her brows. I used to hate their bushiness. They are not bushy now. She shows me slacker cheeks that droop toward her jawline. The skin of her neck has begun to resemble the streamers hung for birthday decor. I will forget all these things when I turn away. The next time I encounter her, I will be just as surprised at her uninvited appearance.

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