The mirror lies on the floor, shattered, but you still find yourself looking at your reflection in the pieces strewn on the floor. It feels like a cruel joke, almost poetic: the reflection wasn’t true until it was broken, lying scattered at your feet. The shards of glass look sharp…sharp enough. You take a deep breath, refocus your eyes so they don’t see your reflection so much as the pieces of glass on the floor. Mother had always taught you to clean up after yourself. You can always buy a new mirror. You start picking up the pieces, tossing them away. Careful, they can still cut.