I’ve taken to staring at my face in the mirror each night.
After I’ve gently washed it.
After I’ve patted it dry and
brushed my wet bangs off to one side
I stare.
At first, I did so halfway
as if off handedly catching my reflection in a storefront.
Unintentional. Removed.
But then something would snag my attention.
A stray hair.
A rising blemish.
And my eyes would focus.
Linger.
Now, I stare.
I stare into all the people I’ve been.
The truths I’ve faced.
The lies I’ve hidden.
The other night my finger lightly traced the wrinkle formed when
I cried for three days straight.
My face is a rusted canyon, I think.
I marvel at how it’s all right there:
Carved.
Pressed.
Etched.
This face is a story
a song
a place
You don’t have to cut me down to
Observe my rings.
The years of abundance and of
want
All are there.
Slowly, I trace my brow
my cheek
my jaw.
I sigh at what I’ve seen
received
endured.
How life has been turned
over and under and into
my face
How I am not yet done
Holly is a wife, very relaxed homeschooling mom of three boys, snapper of photos, coming of age writer and a soul drowning in grace. After years in Atlanta where she attended college, married the love of her life and lived in an intentional community, she found her way back to her home state of Missouri. She now lives in an antebellum stone house, raises chickens (sometimes) and pretends that she lives in the country.
