1. Piano
            You used to play Einaudi’s Nuvole Bianche on the piano like grandpa taught you before he disappeared from within these brick walls. I watched you struggle, pensive, wishing the notes vibrated against the darkened, browned strings. Your right hand sang, and your left hand crooned in the same way his hands did when he played it. But now, every time your fingers even hover over the cold, ivory keys, the world is a dark, frosty winter. The roof caved in on you, and I felt it too. At least, I perceived it, from looking at the back of you. My gold frame was withering away with your familiar touch.
            Do you remember a time before the scant remnants of your worth were not
measured by the quantity of time you felt compelled to stare at me? I would find it hard to believe if you did.
            2. Brother
            You used to share a room with your delicate twin brother before he was whisked off to
boarding school for being different, special. You both would screech the theme songs of
children’s shows, a whimsical abyss of sameness never challenged by monotony. I would watch you two perched in front of the slightly cracked, sweating windows, furiously staring at the white cars that drove by, in the sweltering Florida summer. You didn’t look at me as much as I looked at you, back then. Maybe it is because I am forced to meet everyone’s gaze, no matter the time of day. My eyes are always open, glassy and nondescript. Imagine that, a quiet observer. You don’t know him.
            Do you remember the times that you would sit in the back of dad’s flaming red pick-up truck, listening, absorbing, breathing in the rhythmic jazz? I do, even though I couldn’t
hear it. I was a cracked rear-view where objects are closer than they appear. You were an
innocent twelve.
            Just a note: I see you crying, sometimes. Your face turns puffy and it’s on fire and
your medication rubs off on your clothes. It’s red and blue and all the colors in between.
When you look at me, it makes you cry more. When your eyes aren’t brown they are red.
That’s not normal, is it?
            3. Ballet
            You used to take ballet with the fragile boy next door. He was fragile because your mom used to say that ballet wasn’t for boys, that boys don’t wear pink, that boys were trouble until you turned ripe, mature. The ballet studio was my family: squared with me, and me only. He was fragile, but still your partner for the Giselle. With your pas de deux, the earth shattered, but I stayed intact, of course. My brothers and I, watching you.
            You would still look at me, but you never met my gaze in that room. You would stare at
your feet, your thighs, your hips, and then at the other sickly girls, to compare. Your eyes were
desert wanderers, vagabonds in the clutter that was your life. Vagabond. Oh, that 20th-century classic, A minor. Too bad I don’t have ears to listen to pianos. I can only see the fleeting emotion of the pianist.
            Do you remember your first dimly-lit piano lesson? The room was dark and warm and yellow because Mrs. D. had outdated light fixtures. She looked like an overgrown vineyard waiting for winter to rip her apart. From where I watched, the only times she ever smiled was when you waltzed in with a check between your fingers, or when your mother forced you to give her gifts. Gift cards, usually, because nothing could match the gift of music she already owned. Otherwise, she wore a grimace that was two-parts tragedy and one part disdain from being forgotten. You didn’t forget her, though. I still see you clutching that glossy Polaroid photograph you took when you were fourteen and she was six times that. When she died, you knew the winter came.
            4. Skin
            You’ve examined yourself in me on innumerable occasions. However, me and my
brothers know full well your skin is your vulnerability. I saw your blue box flooded, over-flowing with the creams and gels and lotions of the ocean, and I see you clutch each of one them between your bony fingers hoping they will magically heal your scars. You don’t like to look at me during the process, because you notice your imperfections: your red and brown marks, your cysts, your unplucked brows. I see you getting upset, and I understand. Sometimes I want to tell you that nothing matters more than your inside, that I couldn’t care less if you looked perfect or not. But who am I to talk? You only ever see my outside: the sparkling, flashy glass. Also, I don’t know what you people deem perfect. All I know is that I give you your perfect reflection.

            Ah! Reflection, from Mulan. You used to play that on the piano, your escape. I don’t
think you remember how it goes anymore.

            I hope you realize I am just aluminum metal. Just like all the other mirrors. And I also hope you realize that you and everyone else are all humans. I’ve made a few observations of your type.

            1. You all talk way too much.
            2. You all care way too much about the way you look.
            3. You are fake.

            5. Scale (not major, minor, harmonic, although I wish I was talking about those)
            You never used to stand on top of this thing, until now. I’m not entirely sure what it does, just that it makes you scowl and whine and glance sideways at me again. I see meaningless numbers that change by small margins each day. You see your entire valuation.

            More observations:
                        1. The scale is usually hovering at around 110 when you stand on it. Now, I’m
                             not a nutritionist, but from what I’ve watched, most people that stand on it
                             manifest higher numbers by a significant margin. They don’t get upset. You
                             do.
                        2. The number decreases = : )
                        3. The number increases = : (
                        4. There are weight loss pills on your black countertop. Where did you even                                   get those?

            6. That Night
            Your skin is flushed and swollen and your eyes are rolling back in their sockets. You
are half ghost, half flame, which leaves no more room for alive.
            What on Earth are you doing? The white pills are in your left hand, shaking like you’re having an earthquake from the inside, bubbles erupting from your volcanic mouth.
            Oh, and the worst part? I have no idea what to do.

            A tall man that I’ve never seen before scoops you up and throws you on a blanketed
stretcher. You leave.

            7. Me
            I never got to say goodbye.
            Some final observations:
                        1. I’m not usually this cynical, but the world is a terrible place.
                            Sometimes.
                        2. I remember EVERYTHING.
                        3. Everyone misses you. Or at least, they look like they do.
                        4. You were really, really good at the piano.
                        5. Gosh, you are were beautiful.

                                                                                                                        Goodbye.
                                                                                                                                          -Your Mirrors