Why is it called Good Friday?
my daughter asks over newly baptized Cheerios
I want to answer but realize the question is too big
I leave it on the table
It becomes a mirror
turned back
upon me
Reflecting
Reversing
Refracting
A small mirror with an ornate silver handle and a filigree frame
Perfumes and powders and privilege
An even smaller mirror-a compact
pulled out whenever she forgets
her own face
A large oval mirror on the wall
imbued with powers of prophecy
a broken mirror
driving the dance
of kaleidoscopic rays
an unassuming mirror
where the dead have no reflection
What do I see?
I see Cheerios in fresh milk
A family of four around the table
laughing and fighting to read the back of the box
yet again
having forgotten
already
those unchanging words