Mirror, Mirror

By:  Esmeralda

The mirror and I are not friends.  It’s so judgy.  Everytime I walk by it whispers.  Murmuring over my imperfections and blemishes. It sees my wrinkles beginning to form in the corner of my eyes.  It sees the oversized pores on my face and the red scars of acne leftover from a time that seems like forever ago.  The mirror zeros in on the pillowy fluff that was my midsection and notices the dimples I always wanted, although not quite in the correct set of cheeks I had hoped for.  It sees the beginning of the grays decorating my hair and the bags hanging under my eyes carrying nights filled with little sleep.  It judges me up and down. Not a single section is left hidden.  I hang my head, and sink a little lower.  The weight of the daily attack is too heavy to bear.

But there are things the mirror doesn’t see.  It doesn’t see the two beautiful children my stomach was blessed to carry.  It doesn’t pay attention to the cuddling of my daughter in the middle of the night when she wakes up from a bad dream, or the conversations that last a little later after bedtime prayers because those are the moments my teenage son opens up about his thoughts, worries, and wishes.  The mirror doesn’t know the creases near my eyes are from smiling at a student who seems to need a friendly face, and the lines near my mouth are from laughing until you can’t breathe. 
The mirror, my friends, might see the wear and tear of this life, but not the living of it.  It sees the outside and judges without knowing what lays within.  I pick my head up and look at the eyes in the mirror staring right back at me.  The mirror doesn’t know me.  I know me.  I know the ins and the outs.  I know the past and the present of my body.  And I refuse to be judged.