She throws a gentle smile to herself in the foggy mirror hoping she finally smiles back in satisfaction of her likeness. Blatant traces of her mother’s tired image stares back at her like a frightened owl in the dark of night.

There are days where she’s proud to be her mother’s daughter; a woman whose cracked and callous ridden hands are a trophy of the arduous labor that long sustained her broken family. And then there are days where she wishes she was born to a Wordsworth or a Wellington – you know, someone with power and prestige.

She dreams of one day getting away — finally being free. Free of the uncomfortable, sardine sized cages of her mind. Free of the relentless poverty that entraps her aging body and stifles her effervescent spirit.

 

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