Reflections of an Older Woman

The mirror does not lie, but it softens,

blurring the sharp edges of seventy years into silver hair and quiet skin.

I sit with tea that has gone cold

watching the amber evening sun fade on hardwood floors,

remembering the girl who wore my name fifty years ago,

running down a street that no longer exists,

her heart a small, frantic bird

convinced that one wrong turn will ruin the entire story.

If I could,

I would not hand her a map of roads not taken.

I would not stop her from leaving that apartment, that job,

that man.

I would whisper: "breathe."

The wreckage you are so afraid of creating

is just the scaffolding of who you will become.

You will love the wrong people fiercely.

You will say no when you should have shouted yes,

and you will lie awake counting the ghosts of your choices.

You will love, and be loved.

Know that none of it is wasted.

The mistakes were not detours from your life;

they were the terrain itself.

Look at my hands, weathered and whole—

you did not fail;

you only lived.