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by Wilda Morris

It's not always the same face
I see when I look in the mirror.
Once when I glanced up casually
it was my sister looking back
though she was miles away.

More and more these days
it's grandmother's face I see
reflected in the glass, her grey hair,
plump cheeks, double chin.
If I look back through her eyes,
I'll smile affectionately,
learn at last to love myself.


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