The mirror is not broken but it is distorted with water spots and age. She looks at herself and doesn’t see shining blue eyes or a smile. She sees lines like the crevices of a canyon and tears, tears that never stop falling.
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The mirror is not broken but it is distorted with water spots and age. She looks at herself and doesn’t see shining blue eyes or a smile. She sees lines like the crevices of a canyon and tears, tears that never stop falling.
She is in Manzanillo, Mexico, sitting in the cove below the Las Hadas resort, the resort looms above, a huge white Moroccan style complex, balconies looking out over the clear blue water of the bay below and the Pacific. She leans against a rock and sifts the sand between her hand, gathering small shells in the process. 