from my desilvering mirror

I put my mascara on in front of an old dirty mirror. Though actually it’s more romantic than that, because it’s not dirty in spirit. She’s aged and antiqued, living a severe case of de-silvering. She’s got generations of time serving reflections, in cold damp Copper Harbor, where moisture always finds her way in. These days I can run a dehumidifier, but as her spotty tarnish will show us, air control wasn’t always her story.

Looking into it feels like a 1940s movie scene, it’s all grain and blur. I often think of the other girls who stood before her in earlier years, touching up before facing the day (only to step out into the same outside world as me). The mirror provides enough visibility to see details of yourself, but it’d be trouble to count your eyelashes one by one. My routine before her is inevitably quick, for why bother straining your eyes on anything at all.

Our age is rich with quality, pixel by pixel. We’re all on micro-focused display, it’s really no wonder we’ve all grown weary of age and wrinkles. Meanwhile, who hasn’t said “I love pictures of myself in film,” because of course, it’s beautifully grainy and just right.