Plathitudes

Photo from tumblr . Until I turned thirteen, I didn’t know what my face looked like. I knew I had a face, of course. When I looked into the mirror, I could see very human features: a nondescript nose, uninspiring eyes, an existing mouth. That must be me in the reflection, I thought. And I knew other people’s faces very well: Mackenzie, my best friend since age four, had shockingly red hair that covered the acne on her forehead, and Maggie, a girl who I envied for her general spoiledness, had dark eyebrows that joined nearly in the center of her face. Mrs. Grills, our teacher, had a very straight nose and lots of wrinkles near her eyes. If you asked me what color my eyes were, I’d say brown. If you asked me what color my hair was, I’d say black. If you asked me what shape my nose was… etc. Whenever my eyes left the mirror, however, I could never remember what I looked like. Until I turned thirteen, I was simply a spirit looking out of a window, surrounded by the windowpane o...