Anne and Alice and Me: Window Reflections

I lay draped across my sister's bed by the window, just being, watching the heat lightening in the north-
eastern sky, and willing my aching body along in its slow recovery from the one-day plague that has been on its conquering journey through my family this week. Occasionally shifting my focus from the goings on outside the window to the window itself and the reflections within, I was reminded of Anne Shirley's reflection friend, Katie Maurice, who lived in the bookcase (which sadly housed no books, but china and jams instead) at the Thomas' house, and in my moment of Anne-ish-ness I suddenly saw my reflection as a complete stranger. I wondered if we'd be friends.

The window girl was sprawled across a bed of her own, studying me intently, so I studied her back. Her eyes were quietly serious, her mouth calm. These days my own eyes feel tight with worry, and more often than not my youngest sister asks if I'm angry, giving me reason to think that I scowl more that I might mean to. The window girl had grace for me however, as she held her gaze steady and didn't glance away from me, understanding all the stress and questions I'm sure she could see. She's the friend I'd like to be.
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I looked past the window girl and into her life, at the warm pink glow of a flowered quilt on her bed, half obscured by clean laundry and half packed backpack, at the posters on the walls. Her existence seemed to be a colorful one. I wondered at what I might find beyond the open door of her bedroom, were I able to step through the glass. Would it be "all flowers and sunshine and fairies" like Anne imagined Katie Maurice's world to be? Or would it, like Alice's looking-glass world, be a confusing backwards place? My world resembles Alice's more often than not, though I'm not sure I would take the utopia that Anne dreamed of were I given the option. Though Jabberwocks exist in the looking-glass world we are told that they can be slain (oh, how I'd like to meet that darling "beamish boy", slayer of monsters), and because of this I take hope.
Now I'm quite certain of it; I wouldn't be content with the perfection of Katie Maurice's land. What are flowers without the dirt and weeds, or sunbeams without the storms, or fairies without the dragons? Quite dull, I suppose.


Who'd I like to be:
Alice, Anne or Me?
Reflection holds a separate world;
She's the same, yet a different girl.
Through the looking-glass.





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Credit: poetic form is the invention of my pal, Jonathan. He blogs. check it out. => scarlequain


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