Be a good girl and deadhead the basil, pinch the white flowers with my nails. The air is damp and the rain spits mist. The deer carcass blends in with white rocks in the river, the wet green moss. Pop asks me to pick out Mercury dimes from a larger pile of coins. His Coke can is sweating, forming a circle on the side table. I begin to avoid my own reflection. I stop making eye contact with it in the shop window, but only after I had stared too long, mesmerized by my father’s eyes set inside my skull. The fog is thick crossing the bridge to the Atlantic. I’ve cried all three times I’ve viewed La Pieta and my father says I am vain. He only says this because he thinks I am beautiful. I stare back, silent as the snow that falls, making the world quiet. Soon, the scent of lilacs is back on the wind. Self-portrait, hidden by condensation.