I took my forehead off the mirror
lifting my gaze from knuckles gripped like camouflage to the white porcelain sink
and caught my own reflection.
I watched closely as each tear traced the same pathway
from my eyes down the rough terrain of my face,
collecting at the bottom
until the weight (and gravity)
allowed grief
to drip heavily from my chin.
Then,
one Lone Ranger—my tear of hope—
foraged a new path,
reminding me:
Cycles can be broken.
Photo credit: Ron Smith
