I like to frequent the mirror store in town. And by mirror store I actually mean a store that sells mirrors that is ironically named Mirror Store. When I was little and we first moved here, mom would make a stop there once or twice a month. I always begged her to take me. To me, back then , the mirror store was a funhouse. All the different shapes and sizes of mirrors, none of them ever distorted what I looked like, but to me they were still fascinating. Especially when two mirrors faced each other and there were infinite copies of myself stretching on for eternity. My eyes would light up when the farthest me I could see would wave in sync with my hand. However, my favorite part of this experience was when I would find the mirrors with cracks in them. Whether they had been set down too abruptly or something bumped into them, it didn’t matter, the cracks were the most fascinating part of this store. They eventually designated a whole section to cracked or imperfect mirrors and I would find myself sneaking away from my mother in order to wonder through the hall of broken mirrors. 
However, I don’t frequent the mirror store for the enjoyment I get of seeing my own reflection anymore. I go here in order to ensure myself I’m still who I am. Seeing myself wandering through the aisles of mirrors reassures me i am still who I was yesterday and the day I was born. And I smile knowing I haven’t changed much from the last time I was here. And I stay away from the cobweb covered back corner of the store where the broken mirrors are because I do not want to be reminded of how broken and different I feel.

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