Sepia days started with
a hasty morning's glance in a dressing table's mirror.
The dark wood stained with creams and oil.
Tiny bottles and pots peopling a fragrant army.
Bridge the years.
Capturing pasts from nowhere.
A Parisian mirror reflects in foxed amber the soul's gold.
A secret smile between her lips and her reflection.
A nod and determining gaze.
Control daily trepidations.
Her ghostly face powder pale hangs lost in a faint perfumed remembrance.
Someone knows that smell.

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