I look into the mirror and see a face staring back at me. Then, I look at an old photograph in my hand—one I found in the old pile on the side rack. I see a face starring back at me. It is the same person—the one in the mirror. But this is a different person. This is me. The photograph from 5 years ago stands against the mirror of the moment. The only common thread that ties the two together is the person. But, alas! They are two different person.

Another would look at the two and say that they are the same. “Not a difference in the world,” they would say. But who are they to know about the battles of the girl in the mirror. The girl in the photograph knows nothing of suffering and pain and deceit and defeat. She knows about dreams and love and hoping and believing. I am not the girl I once was. She believed in happy beginnings and never ending.  She believed in angels and magic; hopeless romantics; chirpy ranting and enthusiastic banter. I believe in… Well, I probably believe in something… But I wouldn’t know what. It’s difficult to find a rope to hang on to when all the ones you thought were strong, broke away—one thread at a time. There is this one last rope left and it’s all you’ve got to hold on to, lest you’ll fall away into the abyss of the forgotten. Today, I am that woman. The one with all the questions and too many negations.

Whatever happened to the girl with the wide-eyed wonder; the ear-to-ear smile and the energetic prance? Whatever happened to the girl who never gave up; refused to give in and chose to hold on? She may have fallen—tripped over stones and, sometimes, her own feet; stumbled and found herself kneeling. Did she get back up? She must have because I’m still hanging on. Did she sacrifice herself for me? Just so I could go on? But how long more will I go on? There’s no going on when there is nothing left to go on for. She’d know what lay ahead; or believed in it all the same. She would make going on worth the while. So why isn’t she me? Why is me the one who gave up, gave in and let go?

How do I believe again? Can the ropes un-break—one thread at a time? Can time turn back and undo the scars? If it were the girl from the photograph, she would demand time to turn around; change and heal, altogether. The girl in the mirror doesn’t know much to demand. Can the girl in the photograph come alive again? Can she help the moment’s reflection to see beyond the glass? Can the girl in the photograph be one with the girl in the mirror… again?