Sterling silver compact mirror. Paid for at a garage sale or it was from a woman relative that calls me a “grandchild.” I don’t know. Sort of tarnished but mirror is good to see nose, cheekbone, eyelids. It’s not for sale.
I hold myself unblinking in the back seat of the 4Runner keeping the compact steady. We take the one-ways. When driven over, roads sound like cereal on teeth. They say the best way to get from Sugarland to Missouri City is to use the back roads. But how come I always see us tipping over into the bayou? Because it wants us? Two decades later, I still need terror to be tranquil. I nap and recall the un-dead at dusk pulling their chaffed fingers through my hair. The glare of the mirror keeps them off.