Aesthetica

by Allie Rowbottom

I’m old enough to know that this is how true transformation works, in increments so small you don’t notice until one day you wake up and realize you’ve changed.

Every mirror is an illusion. The only one I want is the one my mother offered, a vision of myself through her eyes.

It’s up to me to look upon myself the way I imagine she would: with love. Maybe that’s the wisest approach to the life left for me to move through, age into. It’s a privilege, to age, I see that now.