The reflection in the mirror is mine but I look through it searching for a place that is familiar. Hoping to find just a morsel of a moment from the past that will tether me to this person staring back. The tears come. Warm. Like a stranger in the darkness of the night, emotion slips in and out and gone before the light. I have nothing left. Through the blur of the tears I ask the reflection who she is. 'I don’t know,' she says back. I look closer at the reflection – the contours of the face speak of a past: freckles from her childhood days spent outdoors in the sun dot her nose and cheeks; lines stretch out from the corners of her eyes a gift from the long, stressful days behind a desk; the stormy blue eyes speak of past pain but the rosebud lips remember the tender touch of lovers past who helped her forget what laid in her path. She stares back at me expectantly; waiting to be recognized. Not tonight. Perhaps with the morning light.