She cringes whenever she catches her reflection in the mirror. I have seen her jump at the sight of herself, a painful reaction that never seems to change. Sometimes she steps closer to the mirror and scrutinizes everything she hates. Her hands will run through her ruby colored hair, cursing the ancestors she inherited it from. She will lift up her shirt and feel her stomach, touching the few stretch marks on her hips and silently pondering why she does not have tight abs. For reasons I will never understand, she has never liked the size of her thighs or the dark beauty marks on her cheeks. She has complained a million times over that her lips are not full enough or that her legs are too short. Whenever she wipes her make-up off, she will begin to tear up just from seeing her bare face.
She does not know that I have caught her doing this, that I have witnessed her analyzing every angle of her beautiful body. She is so subtle about it, thinking that no one will notice. But I catch her every single time, furtively hiding around the corner to conceal myself. I see the pain in her brown eyes, as the side of her lip starts to twitch. Just as miserably as she approaches the mirror, she will mope away and continue with her day.
I have often gone up to the mirror after she has left, just to check that it is not distorted or cracked in any way. I figured it must have been a fun house mirror, like the ones you find at county fairs; twisting the image of someone's body to appear awkward and unsightly. But it is nothing but an ordinary mirror, standing up straight without a single smudge. I struggle to figure out how we see two completely different girls in the same exact mirror.
One day, while she is still at the mall with the girls who force her to feel worthless, I pick up the mirror and drag it to the garage. My parents watch me do this as they lounge on the couch watching a cooking show. I do not explain to them why I have taken the mirror; when our eyes meet, we share a silent agreement that it is something I have to do.
In the confines of the cold garage, I find a hammer from my dad's toolbox. Just as I am about to smash the wretched mirror into as many pieces as I can, I hear her voice.
I look up and she is standing above me, her face red with anger. She loudly asks me why I have a hammer hovering above the mirror, prepared to destroy it. Just as I am about to respond, she bursts into unbearable tears.
She has never cried when she knows I am looking, let alone lose her breath from sobbing so hard. I immediately drop the hammer on the concrete floor and rush to hold her tight. Her body, which will always seem perfect to me, is shaking against my chest. Our parents appear in the doorway of the garage, alarmed but not confused. We have all caught her battling this mirror for a better reflection, though in her mind, she always seems to lose.
I wish she could see what the rest of us do, but all she will ever notice is the need for improvement. It burns my heart to know that she will never see something as stunning as I do.
Because how can you improve something that is already so wonderful?
She does not know that I have caught her doing this, that I have witnessed her analyzing every angle of her beautiful body. She is so subtle about it, thinking that no one will notice. But I catch her every single time, furtively hiding around the corner to conceal myself. I see the pain in her brown eyes, as the side of her lip starts to twitch. Just as miserably as she approaches the mirror, she will mope away and continue with her day.
I have often gone up to the mirror after she has left, just to check that it is not distorted or cracked in any way. I figured it must have been a fun house mirror, like the ones you find at county fairs; twisting the image of someone's body to appear awkward and unsightly. But it is nothing but an ordinary mirror, standing up straight without a single smudge. I struggle to figure out how we see two completely different girls in the same exact mirror.
One day, while she is still at the mall with the girls who force her to feel worthless, I pick up the mirror and drag it to the garage. My parents watch me do this as they lounge on the couch watching a cooking show. I do not explain to them why I have taken the mirror; when our eyes meet, we share a silent agreement that it is something I have to do.
In the confines of the cold garage, I find a hammer from my dad's toolbox. Just as I am about to smash the wretched mirror into as many pieces as I can, I hear her voice.
I look up and she is standing above me, her face red with anger. She loudly asks me why I have a hammer hovering above the mirror, prepared to destroy it. Just as I am about to respond, she bursts into unbearable tears.
She has never cried when she knows I am looking, let alone lose her breath from sobbing so hard. I immediately drop the hammer on the concrete floor and rush to hold her tight. Her body, which will always seem perfect to me, is shaking against my chest. Our parents appear in the doorway of the garage, alarmed but not confused. We have all caught her battling this mirror for a better reflection, though in her mind, she always seems to lose.
I wish she could see what the rest of us do, but all she will ever notice is the need for improvement. It burns my heart to know that she will never see something as stunning as I do.
Because how can you improve something that is already so wonderful?
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