Days when friends bring up poignant memories of their past, on one such rendezvous, she said: “If I could travel back in time to the day glass splintered down from the chandelier, I would walk to my aching self and wipe down blood from those crying wounds and tears from those wounded eyes. I would relive how every creak reverberated through me, how every cold metallic touch straightened that ailing spine, how I shrank back, so tiny and fragile. I would go back to when I looked in the mirror in curiosity, standing and staring at those sad, soulless eyes, feeling the torture that emanated like shock waves through them. The mere imagination of the sight ignited a burning fire in my eyes. Instantly, I sympathized with something that existed no more. Those strong eyes at five had once said, ‘I’ll be a princess in pink!’ Again, the mere imagination had me shuddering and hugging my black trench coat tighter. Looking at my reflection, I tried to find a trace of pink, skimming my past. I knew then this dream had stayed a dream, yet my tears tried to make it look true. As I moved to touch and feel how the mirror portrayed a jawline so clear, the animated sound of the 911 greeted me, taking short, harsh breaths that took their pace. As I saw relief cross that five-year-old face, I knew that pain didn’t end here, but I could think no more, feel no more. So, with the strength each pain had constructed in me, I retraced.” Stories like hers leave me captivated at how one channels adversity into virtue and positivity. Amigos, in this bittersweet symphony of life, someday your inner peace shall thrive.