The mirror in the second-floor bedroom showed a woman I recognized and didn't.
This is not poetry. It's a literal statement. I stood in front of that mirror—for hours, some days—and saw a face I'd looked at for twenty-eight years, and something about the angle of light through the high window made the reflection shift, just for a moment, like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone you didn't see hit the water. In that moment, the woman in the mirror wasn't me. She was...
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