Where did she go?

Where did she go, that girl in the photograph? Suspended in time, preserved like a fly petrified in amber, and petrified by life. Where is she now, that girl with furrowed brow? Beautiful yet fighting for survival. Youthful but prematurely aged by her woes, no highs just lows and a catalogue of disappointments to carry in the portmanteau of her existence. Not a flicker of happiness as I look deep into the frame. I avert my eyes and look into the mirror, and there she is staring back at me. Older now but recognisable; softened by the years somehow. Yes, older now, and perhaps a little wiser. Her beauty has matured like a vintage wine and there’s no sign of the girlish angst that once wrinkled her temple, or caused her to hide behind a mask of false confidence which covered the insecurity and fear that she felt. Now she is strong, a few wrinkles of experience, a little stiff and aching from the marathon of life, but graceful and elegant in her later years, and happy, yes truly happy now. The reflection replaces the senescent photograph in my mind, and reminds me that I’m safe and home at last.