I see the wide smile first, the almost-can't-contain-the-good-good-day smile. It is leaking out all over this morning because God is that good, that gentle, that alive and my eyes crinkle into laughter because I'm looking at laughter full on in the face.
I see the eyes next, the ones that shift colors like the sun shifts angles in the sky. Once when I was going out to dinner in Paris with my class I wore this bright yellow sweater and my teacher said my eyes looked golden. Other times they are storm-grey and weighted down with wind. Other times ocean or oak tree green, but today they are interlocking circles of blue and emerald with flecks of grey in them, all of my many selves flickering inside my ever-dilating pupils.
And then I see nose scattered with Dad's freckles and my hands brush my face and I feel sure that this is my skin and this is my movement, my muscles tightening and stretching into the new days ahead of me and oh, how glorious it is to sit in your own skin, isn't it? And be content there?
I pull on my sweater and my coat and layer the Florence scarf through it all as if I am lacing my Italian self into my day, lacing in the expressions of rich fresh wine-and-sunlight, earth-under-my-feet, and the clean blue air of traveling into my self. I glance back in the mirror as I head out the door, and realize that Hilary means cheerful, and I see that in the mirror too.