Post by NotSoPerfect on Mar 26, 2007 21:38:54 GMT -6
Dearest Mother,
I am writing to you now because I have never felt so lost. My provincial but comfortable world is in shambles at my feet, and I have nothing left to sustain me save an old magazine with your picture and the mirror you left behind. Of all the worldly possessions you had to choose from, of all of the man-made miracles that exist on our Earth today, you chose to leave me with the only two items that could possibly speak these volumes about you. And still, I don't know anything about you.
I have only the vaguest recollections of your delicate face, ornamented with gaudy jewelry and ruby-red lipstick. Your hands were soft; I could never forget their satin caress. Your gowns were always excitably elegant and never failed to elicit jealous glances and thoughtless stares. Although you bathed in affection daily, your expression remained modest and your countenance ignorant. I wonder how you truly felt.
Since you have gone I carry on. I go to school, where I excel. I have friends. My toys and dolls are hidden, but my grandfather's typewriter remains. I keep it on my nightstand. It makes for awkward decoration, but something about its antiquity and potential keep it there, as if glued by some supernatural force. Although I think you would agree that the typewriter is out of taste and makes for poor decor, I think if you sat down and really just looked at it, completely scrutinized it, you would understand.
In any event, I write to you today about this mirror that you left. It stands as tall as my chest, which is not tall I know, and I have to sit to see my face. The frame is made of a dark wood. I'm afraid we have not studied anything like that in school, so I can't identify the tree from which the frame was made. In any event, the wood is dark and old. Sometimes I entertain myself by making up stories, things that such an old mirror must have born witness to. It's strange, really, to think about that sort of thing. That mirror has probably seen the worst of all of the people who have stood before it. Undoubtedly, it saw you without your make-up, maybe crying. And before you, it has seen families grow up and grow apart. It has seen our family break, but now it only sees me.
I want you to know about the mirror itself. The reflective glass is scratched. No, not scratched, bruised. That mirror has seen multitudes of destruction, and it shows. It shows in the fog that mists the bottom half of the mirror and it shows in my face when I sit on my red velvet footstool and look into it. What is it about that mirror? Try as I might, on those mornings when I climb the stairs to the attic and sit to look, it traps me there for hours. When I look into it I see myself, but I see so much more. I see you and I see Father and I see our home. I see myself grow older with each visit, and I feel like I can see all of the sadness that ever existed in the world.
Nora put down her pen. She had been struggling with this letter for weeks, jotting down a sentence or two once she had perfected the words in her mind’s eye. Words were important to her, and she always chose them wisely. For an 11-year-old girl, Nora was strikingly articulate, although timid and reserved. The Lord had bestowed upon her the gift of thoughtfulness, as her father often reassured her.
Her father was kind and warm. Standing at a relatively short five-foot-something, his charisma compensated for his height. He was an unreserved and boisterous character, who, much like Nora’s mother, could capture the attention of a crowd in any room, but without the subtlety and finesse. Amiability aside, Nora was the only person who truly saw her father for what he was – sad and alone. She knew that every time he looked at her, he saw her mother. As painful as this was for both of them, Nora could not help but take a certain pride in reflecting the exquisite beauty of her mother, the actress. Her father was careful to only mention Nora’s mother in the most positive of lights. “Of course she loved you,” he would tell her with a hearty chuckle as they listened to the radio, “she loved both of us. But there were opportunities for her in the city, and your mother is a very beautiful woman, and she promised she will come back once she lands a good role.” At this Nora would smile and settle back into the unyielding comfort of her father’s embrace.
On this morning, however, no amount of warm embraces could ease Nora’s racing mind. Nora stirred in bed, glancing out her window fervently to see if the sky was finally warming with the soft hues of purple and red that signified the morning. The more often she looked, it seemed, the slower the sun came. Finally, she could bear it no longer. She grabbed her old oil lamp off of her nightstand, where it waited patiently next to the typewriter, and climbed the flight of loud, untamed stairs to the attic.
In one fluid motion, Nora set the lamp on the ground and sat on her footstool. Her reflection was hazy, but the details were clear. She scrutinized herself. Her skin was smooth and soft, just like her mother’s, but her dark eyebrows created an undesirable contrast. Those, she figured, she had inherited from her father. Her hair was long and straight and soft. It was durable and easily stayed in whatever fancy style she desired. Again, one of her mother’s properties. Her nose was long and narrow, she noticed. She squinted for a moment, just to better see, and then retrieved the photograph of her mother. Their noses were different. That’s two for and two against me, Nora thought. She dropped the photograph onto the floor beside her, and began to craft the next sentence for the letter.
“What’s wrong with me?” No, she thought, that makes me sound like a sissy. “Why can’t I escape it?” No, still not right. She thought of several more not-quite-right questions for her mother. “Why does the mirror bring out these emotions? Why do I see so much in it?” That sounded much better. She retrieved her pen and the half-full paper, and then meticulously wrote the next two lines.
Nora glanced out the small window in the far corner of the attic. The sun was high in the gray sky. She had been there for hours, and all that she had done was scrutinize herself and add two meager lines to her letter. At least those are the two most important lines, Nora thought in order to justify the loss of her morning. She looked back into the mirror. She noticed how blank her expression was, and tried a series of smiles in order to improve her demeanor. All of them seemed false. She mimicked the detached expression her mother often showed in her photographs. It was perfect.
I wonder how she could ever leave the mirror… Nora wondered. Although she didn’t know for certain that her mother was at one time as encompassed by the mirror as she, the knowledge was almost intrinsic. She did not need to be told. Suddenly it hit her. How did her mother escape the mirror?
Nora stood, almost robotically, and retrieved an old sheet from a rocking chair in the corner. Without remorse or expression, she carefully covered the mirror. She took her letter from its place on the floor beside her stool and, with equal precision, tucked it securely under both the sheet in the mirror. She turned off the lights, glanced back at the ghost behind her, and went downstairs to regain control of her young life.
Her mother hadn’t escaped the mirror.