You are the back of the attic mirror. From your side we see only out. The change of seasons you sketched leaves a reflection on us all. You wear your silver fleck in pieces like the holey No Hunting sign aired by the bully’s bullets. The wind whistles through, not at, you.
We speeding faces fly by your painted past searching for a glimpse of the still town, for the attic barn draped in shadows, for the unfinished spider’s web, for the opened door, the paneless window, for the field where Christina lies, for the chance to look through Helga’s eyes and to see, just once, more than there is to see.