Morning

She wakes up and softly slithers out of the bed trying not to disturb a child peacefully sniffing in her sleep.

She starts her day, as usual, with a splash of cold water in her face to iron out the night folds and wrinkles. Then she takes a long look into her reflection and promises herself it’s going to be a good day.

Thick strokes of greasy non-waterproof mascara are painted on her melange eyelashes. “It’s going to be a good day”, they whisper.

She never uses mascara, unless it’s a special day…

Today is a special day, she fears. She’s going to want to cry… she will want to let the river of sorrow for waisted days, lost paths, unforgettable mistakes, run down her freckled landscape in a stinging current.

But knowing that she has a mascara on will stop her from doing it…

“It’s going to be a good day”, she whispers to her reflection and washes it all off with a splash of cold water…

***

Sometimes all you have left to do is cry. And it’s ok, too.

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