then.”
“Why?”
“You mean more to me than she ever could. Please don’t ask why. I don’t have a better reason than I can’t imagine any good outcome for me if you weren’t here.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You don’t think very highly of yourself, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then you cannot possibly see what I see.”
“Can you show me?”
“I can try.” He turned me toward the mirror. “Tell me what you see.”
“I see me and I see you.”
“Tell me more.”
“I see you holding me. Your head is on my shoulder. You’re looking at us.”
“Tell me about you.”
“My hair is down. It’s darker than yours, not as straight, but longer. My skin isn’t as dark as yours is. I’m smaller than you are, shorter. . . I don’t know what else to say.”
“Want to know what I see?”
“Yes.”
“I see your skin, almost white, against mine, your hair hanging down, like waves of silk, silver-blue eyes that see right into your soul even though they don’t always see what’s on the surface.” He let that sink in and then, “Want to know what else I see? What the mirror can’t show you?”
“Please.”
“I see a soul so innocent it can make you cry, an honesty that puts saints to shame, enough understanding and love and trust for three people, a beauty that cannot be marred from the outside.” He kissed my cheek and held me closer. “That’s what I see.”
I turned to him, buried my face against his neck, and began to cry. He held me quietly while the tears fell. His shoulder was soaking wet when the tears finally subsided. When I pulled away, he wiped the tears from my cheeks and kissed my nose. He pulled me close again as he lay down and pulled the blanket around me. He began to hum just loud for me to hear, a sound so sweet and soothing that I slowly fell asleep.
* * *
“Honey, it’s time to wake up.” He was shaking me gently.
“I’m awake.”
“Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll go make us some breakfast?”
“Why?”
“You mean more to me than she ever could. Please don’t ask why. I don’t have a better reason than I can’t imagine any good outcome for me if you weren’t here.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You don’t think very highly of yourself, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then you cannot possibly see what I see.”
“Can you show me?”
“I can try.” He turned me toward the mirror. “Tell me what you see.”
“I see me and I see you.”
“Tell me more.”
“I see you holding me. Your head is on my shoulder. You’re looking at us.”
“Tell me about you.”
“My hair is down. It’s darker than yours, not as straight, but longer. My skin isn’t as dark as yours is. I’m smaller than you are, shorter. . . I don’t know what else to say.”
“Want to know what I see?”
“Yes.”
“I see your skin, almost white, against mine, your hair hanging down, like waves of silk, silver-blue eyes that see right into your soul even though they don’t always see what’s on the surface.” He let that sink in and then, “Want to know what else I see? What the mirror can’t show you?”
“Please.”
“I see a soul so innocent it can make you cry, an honesty that puts saints to shame, enough understanding and love and trust for three people, a beauty that cannot be marred from the outside.” He kissed my cheek and held me closer. “That’s what I see.”
I turned to him, buried my face against his neck, and began to cry. He held me quietly while the tears fell. His shoulder was soaking wet when the tears finally subsided. When I pulled away, he wiped the tears from my cheeks and kissed my nose. He pulled me close again as he lay down and pulled the blanket around me. He began to hum just loud for me to hear, a sound so sweet and soothing that I slowly fell asleep.
* * *
“Honey, it’s time to wake up.” He was shaking me gently.
“I’m awake.”
“Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll go make us some breakfast?”
