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Purple Sunflowers

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~Tessa Hereth 

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I end every day the exact same way, by looking in the mirror. I don’t know why I
continue to do it, it doesn't provide me comfort anymore, or give me peace. All it does
is reflect. I’ve never been able to tell if I like what I see, or hate it.

 

So I observe.

 

When I was very small I used to wake up crying at night. Whenever my parents
asked me what was wrong, all I could say was that I was scared that I wasn’t me. My
parents scoffed at the notion and told me to go back to sleep, but my grandmother
would always pick me up, sit me in front of the mirror and tell me to look at myself
and know that who I was would never change.


She passed away a long time ago now.


As a child I was infatuated with my appearance. Every strand of hair had to be
just so, every wrinkle ironed out, my mother thought it was sweet I acted just like her.
A classmate got a new coat one day. It was purple like a new bruise. I never liked
purple, I preferred yellow. We played on the swingset that cold fall day. She told me
her favorite color was dark purple and she picked her coat just for that reason. She
asked my favorite color and I told her I loved purple too. She was so excited to find
someone with the same favorite color. I was so excited to have a friend. We did
everything together for the next three years. She bought me a purple coat for my
birthday. She helped me paint my walls purple.


She moved away some time ago.


Wiping the makeup off my face as the light faded outside I observed my

off-centered eyes, my crooked nose and small mouth, my purple room a mess behind
me in the reflective glass.


I started wearing a full face of makeup in sixth grade, after a sleepover with my
friend and all of her friends. We did each other's makeup that night, and I stayed silent
about my dislike of the feeling of it on my face while one of the many girls I didn’t
know did mine. As she slathered the makeup on my face she told me all about her daily
makeup routine and all the different techniques she knew. She told me how to fix each
and every one of my features, with some contour, concealer, and foundation. She told
me how pretty I looked with the makeup on. She let me practice on her.


I begged my parents to buy me makeup as soon as I got home and the next day
proudly went to school after watching countless tutorials. She was delighted and
invited me to sit with her at lunch that day. I sat with her for years, and whenever
conversations ran dry I would turn to the newest makeup techniques I learned.

 

In tenth grade, she introduced me to her boyfriend, who she met at the arcade.
She didn’t like to talk about makeup around him.

 

I haven’t talked to her in a while.

 

Many days, like today, I look in the mirror and just feel empty. My humor and
commentary worn down from a long day of use.
I had spent the day with my boyfriend. I met him not too long ago at the arcade.
We started talking about our favorite games to play. He said his was Galaga, I said
mine was too. He introduced me to his friends today. I was worried they wouldn’t like
me, but after observing them for a little while I realized it wouldn't be as hard as I
thought to get them to. A well timed comment here, a dirty joke there, an eagerly
received compliment, an inside joke I didn’t quite understand, and they all seemed to
accept my presence. It was unbeknownst to them that I had only commented on
things I knew would be received well, don't find dirty jokes funny, and didn’t see
much of anything to compliment.

 

I don’t know if I want to talk to them again.

 

But still, no matter what, at the end of each day I sit down and look in the
mirror. No matter how hard I look, I can’t see the scared little girl who’s favorite color
was yellow anymore. The little girl who used to check the mirror every night to make
sure she was still herself. She faded slowly, so slowly I couldn’t tell until she was gone.

 

I grew at the same time, but always found myself sitting in front of the mirror's cold
glassy surface. I wonder what it thinks of me. I wonder if it sees my purple walls, my
makeup collection, the arcade tokens, the purple sunflowers my boyfriend picked
especially for me and thinks that that is me, or, I wonder if it can still see the little girl
who preferred yellow and didn’t like make-up and never went to arcades or wanted a
boyfriend.

 

Does it know what makes me myself? Is it my decisions? My actions? My
beliefs or ideals? Do they have to be acted upon? I tugged my hands through my hair,
pulling whenever a tangle ensnared my hands. My eyes welled with tears as I realized
that even if I wiped off my makeup, or repainted my room, it wouldn’t paint over the

me that everyone knew, and changing her would cause them pain.

 

I looked in the mirror, and that’s when I saw her again. The little girl crying in
the mirror. But this time she was afraid of something that had already happened.

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