on my first birthday my father gifted me a hand mirror

my mother kept it in my nursery

and as I grew, it grew with me

at five, it was hung on the wall across from my bed

I saw my face as I slept

at sixteen, I came home and found it cracked

my mother tried to fix it with resin

but it came out lumpy and distorted

at twenty-three, I moved it into my first apartment

I left the mirror with my parents, it had grown too large and fragile to move

my father protested, my mother stayed silent

at thirty, I found it in their basement while searching for long gone memories

it had become a window, and through it I saw myself

a baby, a child, a teenager, a woman, a person