If My Soul Were a Mirror
If my soul were a mirror,
it would not only gather light.
It would remember every fracture
light has ever passed through.
It would notice
the sorrow folded neatly
behind practiced laughter,
the conversations rehearsed
but never spoken,
the hopes buried quietly
before anyone could call them foolish.
It would recognize
the child who learned
that disappearing felt safer than being seen,
the woman
who emptied herself into everyone else’s hunger
until she could no longer hear her own,
the elder
whose deepest loneliness
is not age,
but becoming invisible.
And God
God would not turn away.
He would follow each broken line
with the patience of one
who has never mistaken a wound
for a failure.
Then, almost in a whisper:
Let them discover themselves in your voice.
Let your words become a place
where weary hearts can rest
without first pretending to be whole.
That is why I write.
Not to fill silence,
but to honor it.
Not to have the final word,
but to keep company
with those who have forgotten
that their own story still has one.
I write for the quiet
that settles after grief,
for the trembling moment
before hope finds its name again,
for the hidden places
where grace often arrives
without announcing itself.
If my soul is a mirror,
then these words
are simply light
passing through weathered glass
scarred,
imperfect,
yet still able
to illumine another face.
And if, for one brief moment,
someone looks into these pages
and remembers
their own unbroken worth,
then the mirror
has done
what it was made to do.
