I think as I see her with her winter face that has seen so many seasons come and go, I know her real face. I know her summer face, her bride face bubbling as the springs of her native land, the face behind all the changing faces in between: the tree-of-knowledge face, the lost-princess face, the kitchen face, the garden face. I think as I see her gathering small bouquets of mint and thyme, holding a scarlet poppy to her pale cheek, I know the real face. The other faces were only loaned. The real face is still there like the Mask of Comedy always ready to appear if the Mask of Tragedy should slip.