On
the northwest wall of my little cottage hangs a large gilt-framed mirror. It is
round and slightly convex, so that if you peer into it, your face appears
distorted. It used to hang above the fireplace in the house where I grew up,
reflecting our daily comings and goings. I could stand in the kitchen doorway
and see in duplicate my father in his green chair, my mother at the kitchen
sink, and myself, dishtowel in hand, watching us all in the mirror.
I always have the feeling, when I look at it now, that if I stare into it long and deeply enough, I can see all my growing up years stored beneath its surface. There would be my first, halting steps, and the way I grabbed onto chairs and the coffee table and my father’s legs as I learned to walk. I would see my first haircut, the soft golden curls that framed my chubby baby face gone forever. Or I’d see myself sitting under my mother’s piano, a book in my lap, tracing the words with my finger as I learned to read.
My brother and sisters would be in the mirror, too. I imagine every game of marbles on the living room floor, every castle built with blocks, every game of bingo and lotto and Chinese checkers forever stored in its reflective depths. If I concentrated, I would see the day a professional photographer came to the house to take formal pictures of my brother in his crooked bowtie and my sisters and I sitting primly on the sofa in our matching plaid dresses, the mirror gleaming over our heads.
I would see my mother at the piano, playing The March of the Wooden Soldiers as we thumped around the living room in time to the music. There would be all the early suppers in front of the television, the noisy New Year’s Eve celebrations, the quiet evenings in front of the fire.
Every Christmas tree we ever had would shimmer with tinsel and colored lights behind the glass, every Easter basket revealed as the mirror recorded its hiding place. I would still be coming down the stairs in my green corduroy coat on Sunday mornings to parade back and forth in front of the mirror admiring my first high heels, or whirling about the living room with my mother as we practiced the be-bop with the kids on the Dick Clark show.
I would be there in my graduation robe, my wedding gown, my favorite bright red maternity dress. My children would appear there, snuggled with their Memeré on the couch or their Peperé in his big, green chair.
The only day not recorded in the mirror is the last day we both spent in that house. It lay on a chair, wrapped for moving, it’s face hidden as I said my goodbyes. I treasure that bit of glass and gilt now, for it’s more than just a mirror. It’s the repository of all my days.
I always have the feeling, when I look at it now, that if I stare into it long and deeply enough, I can see all my growing up years stored beneath its surface. There would be my first, halting steps, and the way I grabbed onto chairs and the coffee table and my father’s legs as I learned to walk. I would see my first haircut, the soft golden curls that framed my chubby baby face gone forever. Or I’d see myself sitting under my mother’s piano, a book in my lap, tracing the words with my finger as I learned to read.
My brother and sisters would be in the mirror, too. I imagine every game of marbles on the living room floor, every castle built with blocks, every game of bingo and lotto and Chinese checkers forever stored in its reflective depths. If I concentrated, I would see the day a professional photographer came to the house to take formal pictures of my brother in his crooked bowtie and my sisters and I sitting primly on the sofa in our matching plaid dresses, the mirror gleaming over our heads.
I would see my mother at the piano, playing The March of the Wooden Soldiers as we thumped around the living room in time to the music. There would be all the early suppers in front of the television, the noisy New Year’s Eve celebrations, the quiet evenings in front of the fire.
Every Christmas tree we ever had would shimmer with tinsel and colored lights behind the glass, every Easter basket revealed as the mirror recorded its hiding place. I would still be coming down the stairs in my green corduroy coat on Sunday mornings to parade back and forth in front of the mirror admiring my first high heels, or whirling about the living room with my mother as we practiced the be-bop with the kids on the Dick Clark show.
I would be there in my graduation robe, my wedding gown, my favorite bright red maternity dress. My children would appear there, snuggled with their Memeré on the couch or their Peperé in his big, green chair.
The only day not recorded in the mirror is the last day we both spent in that house. It lay on a chair, wrapped for moving, it’s face hidden as I said my goodbyes. I treasure that bit of glass and gilt now, for it’s more than just a mirror. It’s the repository of all my days.
4 comments:
What marvelous memories to attach to a mirror. You are lucky to have those great memories.
Beautifully, wistfully, written.
Lovely. This made me think of the mirror on the wall over our hall table when I was growing up. It was a simple rectangle, longer than it was wide, with some sort of twisted curliques at the the top and bottom. My mother always had fresh flowers in a green glass vase under it. If it could talk it would tell me things I remember as well as things I've forgotten since it sat in such a place it witnessed all our comings and goings. Sadly I don't know where it is now. It was certainly too heavy to carry over the ocean after my mnother died.
It might still be there as my brother still lives there, alone. I very much doubt there are ever flowers below it now though.
How beautiful, Pauline. Do you still remember your first haircut? I wish that I remembered mine.
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