mirror, mirror
shards of glass hit the hardwood floor
6 August 2008
I look beautiful today. I gaze in my full-length mirror and see her staring back at me. Her hair is done up, and her mother’s pearls drape around her neck like a thin scarf. Her matching brooch with a small white bird on it and pearls around the edge perches just above her heart with pride. Her makeup looks like it was done with a steady hand, and she looks much younger than her grand old eighty-two years. I walk away from the mirror and let her go.
The kettle is boiling for my ten o’clock cup of tea. I can hear Doris playing the same old song through in the common room, clunking away on the ivory keys like there’s no tomorrow. There may not be a tomorrow for her, bless her. She only knows one song now, having forgotten her repertoire over time, but she plays it every day with such vigour that you would never think she was degrading.
The kettle whistles profusely, signalling it is time for my tea. I grab the pot of chamomile and plonk a bag in my one china teacup. I’ve had this cup since I was a little girl, and it is a staple in my daily routine now. I remember being fascinated by my grandmother’s collection of dainty cups and plates and spoons, all adorned with crimson roses and thin gold trimming. When she passed, I inherited all of it. Most of it resides with my daughter now, but I kept this teacup as a keepsake. It’s part of my everyday life now
6 August 2010
I look lovely today. I gaze in my full-length mirror and see her staring back at me. She looks older today, tired, like her years have caught up on her. Her makeup is a bit smudged, with no neat lines or defined shapes. But she still looks beautiful. She wears her pearls with pride, like they’re priceless, even though she has no idea where they came from. A very pretty brooch rests on her chest, the white splatter on it a contrast to her magenta cardigan. I walk away from the mirror and let her go.
I flick the kettle on. It’s a bit after ten now, and I am late, as my usual routine slipped my mind. The kettle boils swiftly, and I grab a mug at whim from my cabinet and place a chamomile tea bag inside. After picking up the cup and grasping it with both hands, I carry it over to the small table I have perched next to the window. I take a seat and sip the tea daintily. The retirement home van tootles past at a pace barely above walking. I opted out of today’s outing. Maybe tomorrow. Drinking tea and people watching is an excellent alternative, anyway. I can hear the faint sounds of the piano being played, and it echoes down the corridor. Doris is long gone, but she has been replaced by a nice old chap who knows three songs instead of one. Progress is progress.
6 August 2011
I look different today. I gaze in my full-length mirror and see her staring back at me. But she isn’t me. She’s an old lady with wrinkles and awful makeup and tacky pearls and thin silver hair. I’m not her. I’m young, with thick auburn waves and freckly cheeks. Who is she? I’m thirty-two, dancing to Frank Sinatra in my living room with my children. That’s not me. I’m seven, falling into the fire after my brother pushed me and burning my hand. She isn’t me. I’m twenty-five, being whisked away at a party and falling in love in one night. I’m not her. I can’t walk away from the mirror. I can’t let her go. She calls me back when I try to leave.
Who is she? Who am I?
My regular chamomile tea sits unused on the kitchen counter, the kettle unboiled. My grandmother’s teacup has been shoved to the back of a cupboard and is now collecting dust. Rituals have been forgotten, sentimental items have lost their meaning.
She continues gazing at me. A frail, old woman. I lightly graze my fingers against her wrinkled skin and feel her brittle hair. Then I fall.
Clink, clink, clink. Shards of glass hit the hardwood floor.
i submitted this piece a few months ago as part of a school assessment, and am quite proud of it so i thought i would share it on here. i’m not very familiar with writing fictional short stories in this way, so it’s something a bit different :) i hope you enjoyed it!
Beautiful writing, Edie - I love this piece.