Somewhere in suburbia every night a woman sits in front of a mirror tracing the lines in her face with her fingertips like etches in an ancient stone. She wonders if the girl all a-smile in those yellowed photo albums ever existed. She thinks that the times of love and happiness, times of laughter, were real. Yet the dampening effect of time elapsed has served only to suggest the opposite to her, or at least that they've existed inasmuch as you or I shall exist, and then cease to do so within a span of time. Sometimes, when she feels brave enough, she allows herself to think back to that girl who once existed and asks herself in her heart-of-hearts if that girl would be proud of what she has accomplished in life. She is a mother, a worker, a provider. A cook, a seamstress, a chauffeur. But not one of those things were listed on that girl's register for life. She wonders if that girl wouldn't know the woman who sits before the mirror smoothing away wrinkles with creams and lotions. Or running arthritic fingers through greyed split ends in the shower, willing the wrinkles and the greyness to wash away with the hot water that dries out her skin and gives her scaly elbows. All down the drain, accompanied by lavender scented bubbles. All she has done in her life, and all those lives she has made better as a result of it - and yet, when she gazes into that mirror, does she still see the one life that she deserved to serve first and foremost?