Mariah Fletcher
I was sitting in the shower, watching my mirror fog up while wondering how the world will end. Climate change, an atomic bomb, an alien attack- all of which sound sweeter when you conclude that, either way, the fall of humanity will end in music. Shaving my too-long legs, laughing at the first time I shaved them. I had cuts and scrapes down my ankles and knees, and it felt as if something innocent had left my body at ten years old.
I turned off my water and wiped down the mirror. It was full of fingerprints; this bathroom holds memories of ghosts, undead. I applied a facemask and waited for God to show up on the ledge of my tub.
Maybe he did.
It was too steamy to see anything other than the face of a grown woman in the mirror. She erased everything but her reflection. She looks like my mom.
Maybe that is who God is personified, an echo of the woman before me. I used to believe that womanhood was strawberry lip gloss and red high heels. That was until I shaved my legs for the first time. I glanced back at the woman in the mirror. I think I inherited her curse of waiting.
So, maybe that’s how God shows up.