Do you look in the mirror and see your mother? Are you beginning to see her traits in your behavior? Read the flash that follows from my upcoming collection of short stories.
“Hot pink jeans with a switchblade in the pocket” (working title: suggestions welcome)
I stumble into my bathroom at five, turn on the light, start the shower. When I look into the antique mirror my mother’s face stares back. What the hell? “You’re supposed to be in bed,” I say. “I don’t feel like sleeping.” She reveals two crooked front teeth in a raggedy smile. I grab a washcloth and wipe the mirror but it streaks soap over my mother’s face. She grimaces. I spray Windex and wipe it clean. “You know,” she tilts her head sideways as if examining a picture. “You’re starting to look like me.” I lean against the sink. “Jesus, what does that mean?” I examine deep grooves along the sides of her mouth, mismatched jowls, red spider veins on her nose, a tanned hide. “How long have you been standing there, Mom?” “Years.” “I can’t get ready with you staring at me!” “Don’t use that tone of voice with me,” she says with a frown. “Why can’t you leave?” I ask. “As long as you look like me I can’t leave.” I turn out the light, but she is still there when the light goes back on. “You know dear, you really should start using night cream. It helps save face as you age.” “Mom, this conversation is ridiculous.” She starts to cry. I reach out to touch her but the mirror gets in the way.
“How did you get behind there anyway?”
“I’ve always been here.” She smiles. “Go away!” I shout at the mirror. “Don’t worry. I’ll look better after you start using cream,” she winks. I look into a hand mirror to get a clear picture of myself but there’s my mother again. I hang it on the shower rod behind me but now hundreds of mothers stare at me …in front of me…behind me…staring from all angles…so I rip the mirror off the shower rod and throw it in the trash can. My mother frowns, furrowed lines, memories of time spent in the sun. “You can’t get away from mirrors, but you can pretend all of it isn’t happening.” Her eyes fix on the night cream. “Will you go back to sleep if I use it?” I ask. She nods. I unscrew the lid on the jar, dip in three fingers and slather cream over the mirror.