Days go by and I do not look in the mirror. Occasionally, I'll steal a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror or when I pass a shop window or in the kettle as I make tea. I catch images of me in my thirties. I have begun to observe how my face is changing. The lines have finally emerged to illuminate all of the hidden, withheld, carelessly and freely expressed feelings that I have and continue to channel through my facial muscles. A close friend once told me that what I'm feeling is always so obviously written all over my face. This surprised me initially, but I have tiny witnesses day in and day out who corroborate this opinion. They take note of the subtle crinkling of my eyes or an askance turn down of my lip, telegraphing subtle shifts in my mood. As I age, I allow the gauzy mask to slip. What does it reveal? How will my kids remember me? How will I remember myself?