Nowadays I smile at my reflection
and ignore her many flaws (like the fat that cling to her midriff or the acne constellation on her temple) because I know she is the main character of a book that I’m still writing. And behind the layers of her skin are the pages of her soul: Words beyond words that have yet to be put on paper. And her soul is not just her past mistakes and shortcomings and lost dreams, but also her hope and her laughter and her love and her faith in those chapters which I have not yet written. And in her book, nothing is certain; neither the setting, nor the plot, or even the title, for God has given me the thesis but the summary is mine to write. And the main character will grow and she will learn and love and stumble, but as long as the pencil is in my hand she will get back up. And when, in many years, I smile at my reflection and see the skin that once glowed of youth and light crinkled from time and knowledge, I shall look at her laugh-lines and the deep pools of blue in her eyes and be content, for she lived without regrets or what-ifs or had-beens for I had spent my time writing pages of hope, of laughter, of love, and of faith in the chapters that I had finally finished.