|Mirror by Silk Road Collection (Flickr)|
She’s covered the television and computer monitors, laid the paintings and pictures of her and Daniel face down, draped the CD and DVD stands with old curtains, taped newspaper across the bathroom mirrors.
There’s blood on her hands, earned in her futile efforts removing glass from and pressing gauze packing to Daniel’s wounds.
She can’t wash it off.
And she only wants one reflective surface in the house.
Kneeling inside her circle—thin layer of grain and salt—she reaches out and plucks the sheet from the freestanding mirror.
Her image smiles at her.
She is not smiling.