Every girl she ever was
Her instincts were iffy, doubt clinging to her like sweat at the end of a hot yoga session. She stared at her reflection, tentatively at first, then more boldly, though still with a shadow of hesitation. The bathroom light was soft against the predawn darkness yet far too honest at five in the morning, catching the fine lines, the shadows, and the silver streaking along her middle parting and temples—stubborn strands that even the flat iron refused to tame. She had finally convinced herself that her grays could no longer be contained or hidden. She was tired of clinging to a version of herself that belonged to the past. At sixty, the mirror offered little room for falsehood, holding up only unfiltered truths. Sometimes she cringed, the vanity within her wanting to deny the passage of time etched across her surface. There was the softening around her middle. She pinched her squishy places, wondering if desire might still long for a home there. She squirmed at the thought of hi...
