As we write, we also reflect. Our memories, whether inherited or experienced, are explorations of intergenerational relationships, encounters, and cultural ripples. Who do we see looking back at us when we spend time watching the water? In the quiet moments, who’s, or perhaps even what, collection of voices do we hear echoing from canyons? Are there memories at the tip of our tongues, awaiting an inciting moment, a specific taste. When the sun touches the mirror, do we become radiant, or is there only a glimpse of a tender reflection? These writers, while not initially prompted to write from “Reflection,” each present their own song of rumination. When history matches the future of family names, when queerness, bodies, and grief meet at a crossroads, when you inherit family but not love, when language and definition is forced upon you, and when sex is complicated by daughterhood and loss—when you take a moment to check your reflection in the mirror, what do you see? What do you wish you saw? While not necessarily haunting, these works aren’t afraid to meet their own gaze.