Two-Way Mirror

Joanna White

Saturday with dad. He needed a book
from work so we raced the stairs to beat
his elevator. On the landing, doors parted
to his mock surprise at finding his children
waiting as if for years. Down the hall,
we trailed as he dug in his pocket for his key
to the psych clinic playroom. Rounded
wooden trucks, we plucked
from the sandbox, dolls—heads bulging
with secrets¬¬—we tucked into beds. Stay,
my dad told my siblings, taking me around
the corner to a room, where I saw us
in the mirror until he flipped the switch,
our silhouettes slipping like mercury behind
my brother and sister. When I tapped the wall
they reached for the glass, fingers touching
their own.