It is so unusual, being me,
that I have never really adjusted to it.
Often, just when I think I have a grip on being,
I look in the mirror,
and find someone else.
Someone older or more tired or wrinkled
or happier or sadder than I knew I was,
and I'm confused again.
Sometimes I expect to see my mother, or
her child, or my child when I look.
Often I feel like I won't see
anyone at all,
and then, I'm shocked to see
a lonely remnant of someone
I thought I had known.
Sometimes, I can feel so miserable
that when I look for myself
and find a reasonable face,
I can't help but
smile and hum in delightful
celebration of that moment.
It is so unusual, being me,
that I hav
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