. . . into the mirror, not quite speechless.
Voice hushed to a whisper, for his own benefit.
He was alone in the bathroom.
Razor, toothbrush, scissors, a bar of soap, talcum powder,
these and more, occupied familiar positioning.
And yet.
“What … in the name of God, is happening to me?”
Juan had transitioned.
Perhaps he was dreaming – or hallucinating.
This, he told himself.
Ownership of the bathrobe, he could not recollect.
The pattern he admired, enjoyed the feel of the fabric.
See-through and floaty.
Despite the ordinariness of this body,
swinging movement in and out of profile, fully left and right,
Juan appreciated the newly emerged shapes and soft lines.
“What will Mamá say?”
Juan saw her in monochrome, collapsed across a chaise-longue.
Hand laid to rest upon forehead above flickering eyelids.
Tomorrow, work awaits, colleagues, bosses and clients.
But for today, Juan steps into a new world.
One that begins under the warm water spray of the shower.
Brinkinfield 