When she goes out,

to the market or a store or to a restaurant,

she says to herself as people pass:

“Pig Face, Fox Face,

Pig Face.”

She has a pig face.

She knows it.

But she didn’t always,

no, not always.

When I look at old photographs of her —

and there’s this one picture I’m thinking of,

the one of her as a young woman,

standing at the beach with her best friend (pig face) —

they’re in bikinis, holding their stomachs in

so they will look long and sleek

like foxes.

In the picture, my mother is smiling,

her face very long,

her teeth very white,

like a fox.

My mother never smiles for pictures anymore,

not like that.

No, now her smile is flat,

almost a grimace,

forced on her by time and age

and disappointment.

Time has taken my mother’s face in its hands

and carefully, slowly,

pressed and shaped it

until the fox is gone.

I look at pictures of my mother now,

photos from reunions and holidays,

and I think to myself —

I can’t help it, I do —

I think: “Pig face.”

The last time I saw her, we went down to the mall.

It was crowded and she tires easily,

so we sat for awhile and watched the people go by.

“Pig face,” she said. And then “Fox face.”

“I have a theory,” I told her,

“That there is another kind of person in the world,

another kind of face:

People too long and broad for foxes,

too flat and sharp for pigs.”

I nodded at a man hurrying past

and whispered: “Wolf.”

Pig faces are soft and friendly

and quick to laugh,

easy to hug and easy to love,

like my mother.

Foxes are sleek and quick

and clever

and beautiful,

but prone to snap and hurry away

if they don’t trust you.

There are more pigs than foxes in the world,

and more foxes than wolves.

Wolves are rare, solitary,

endangered.

The people I have known,

the wolves I have met over the years…

Well,

I have never trusted them.

I have a fox face, like my father.

He was a fox, and he was an old fox

when he died.

Time never laid a finger on him.

It’s late and I should be asleep.

I stay up too late, I always have.

I roam the house, stalking through rooms

and sniffing the air,

looking for trouble all night long

like a fox.

It’s late and I should set this aside

and go to bed.

In the morning I will rise

and yawn,

showing my teeth to the bathroom mirror.

And then I’ll shave,

drawing the razor up my long cheeks,

across my sharp chin,

and down my lean throat.

And, as I do every morning,

I’ll play The Face Game,

looking to see what work

Time and age

and disappointment

have done to me during the night

while I slept.