She is five, her curls soft and wild, framing her cheeks like tiny question marks. The mirror before her is smudged with fingerprints and the faint glitter of yesterday’s play. She balances on a stool that wobbles when she laughs, her purple nail polish chipped but proud. She adjusts the plastic crown sitting crooked on her head and stares at her reflection, a princess in training, a dreamer with jelly on her face.
Behind her, two parents exchange a glance only parents understand, the kind that says look what we made. The little girl with the big laugh doesn’t know she’s teaching them something about joy. For now, the world is small, the mirror is magic, and her curls bounce when she giggles.
Years pass the way pages turn in a book. Her reflection changes before she realizes it. The curls become sleeker, the laughter softer. Sixteen now, she leans into the same mirror, tracing eyeliner with the seriousness of a painter at work. A nervous heartbeat hums beneath her skin. Her reflection holds hope and hesitation, like she’s waiting for the world to notice she’s grown. Her reflection doesn’t warn her that some hearts bruise easily, or that first loves often teach lessons more than they last.
One day, she stands in front of another mirror, this time in white. The crown has turned into a veil. Her reflection glows with the beauty that comes from believing in forever. Behind her, a mother’s hands tremble joyfully, fastening the last button. The mirror holds both women, the child who once wore a tiara and the woman who now wears promises.
Life shifts again. The next mirror is fogged with steam and exhaustion. The woman, now a mother herself, looks different. There are dark circles under her eyes, the price of love paid in sleepless nights. Her reflection smiles faintly while balancing a baby on her hip. She doesn’t notice the spilled coffee or the chaos of toys scattered behind her. She only sees a reflection of someone surviving, strong, and still learning to love the new body that carried a miracle.
Time keeps moving, quietly and unfairly. She stands before the mirror at forty-seven, holding a jar of anti-wrinkle cream, wondering when her reflection began to look like her mother’s. The curls are tamer now, streaked with the first signs of gray hair that shimmer under the bathroom light. Her reflection is kind but honest. It tells her she’s aging, but it also whispers that she’s lived. She studies her skin, eyes, softening jawline, and realizes each change is a memory etched into her. Still, the thought of empty rooms and grown children makes her heart ache in ways she doesn’t say out loud.
Then one morning, her reflection surprises her again. The gray hair has taken over, and her eyes, once bright with laughter, now carry stories. She adjusts her dress with hands that tremble slightly. On the dresser rests a small black hat, one she will wear to her fourth funeral this year. The air feels heavy, as though the mirror itself is mourning. She looks at her reflection and sees not just age but every version of herself layered behind the glass, the baby, the teenager, the bride, the mother. All of them were watching quietly, all of them still here.
Though thinner now, her curls still curve around her cheeks. Her reflection is softer and gentler. She sighs, half-tired and half-grateful. The mirror no longer shocks her. It comforts her, showing her that even as life takes and changes and bends, it also leaves pieces of who she’s been.
She lifts her hand to meet her reflection, and for a brief moment, everything aligns. The girl in the tiara, the woman with gray hair, the mother, the dreamer, they all exist together. She isn’t just dressing for another funeral. She’s dressing for a lifetime, for every version of herself that ever stood in front of this mirror, with curls draped around her cheeks and hope still quietly alive behind her sad eyes.
