Mirror, Mirror

Sometimes I read my own emotions in her eyes.  

Sometimes I’m not sure where I end and she begins.  Sometimes it’s as if I get to be with  myself as an eight year old.  Sounds co-dependent, enmeshed, and  unhelathy.  A trifecta that would elicit a red flag from a therapist.  And I’m sure it is, but also, it’s amazing.  What a mirror.  What a confronting mirror that grows me, everyday.  Her fire.  Her entitlement.  Her preferences.  Her spirit.  The sharpness of her mind and tongue. The way she needs to be run like a husky.  How she’ll fight for sport.  How melty she is deep down in there and how what she truly wants is for everyone to see that. 

And when it’s not confronting, it’s this amazing experience of hanging out with someone I understand so deeply and who gets me so deeply that it’s like we are one. And we were, at one point. I forget that sometimes but it’s true. My girl, Zo. I just declined a lilac leotard hand-me-down for her because she would never wear it.  She plays with her chickens in the pouring rain without a raincoat.  She still scoops up banana slugs without a moment of hesitation.  She eats more beef than anyone I’ve ever met.  Her hair is always tangled.  Always.  Her eyes are always bright.  I imagine us older together - her in her twenties, me in my 50’s, and we’re basking.  

On the breakwater in the summer dark, speaking rhythms in silence to one another.