Unveilings

It was not I that unveiled her beauty. The model waiting to enter a camera lens fusses over a shoulder strap and steps out. Did I see a veil fall? The crying girl beneath was erased in an instant as she felt eyes upon her, it vanished where she pouted and posed. Maybe I was mistaken, maybe I’m and old romantic, seeking something not there, but I do see her alone with her dressing table mirror, listening to the glass image, telling it not to cry so. Exasperated she rises and walks to a window. There is a man in the distance, he is away from the crowded street. He is waving to her. I imagine I am Peter Pan bringing home the lost girls. Though she sees only a small boy and wonders why the child is all alone in the park crying. Then she remembers her own secret image and understands.