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By Anonymous, darien, IL

I slowly examine the face reflected in the small vermeil mirror hanging on my bedroom wall. It is striking- so different from what I had seen before. My eyes, though lightly lined, pierce through the glass like emerald orbs sharply contrasting with pale skin and cascading waves of chocolate hair. My lips, a soft, faint pink, tremble slightly in the reflection when I reach to touch them, and my lashes bat more than usual to quell imminent tears.

I see my mother’s eyes. I see her lips. I see her hair. I trace the golden frame of the mirror she had left behind wondering how she would have seen me- what she would have said to me. Fighting back sobs, I shut my eyes and clutch the fabric of her violet dress that I am going to wear for today’s reaping.

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