Mirror mirror...
Can a mirror somehow hold traces of all the people who have looked into its glassy surface - whether for a quick glance or a longer inspection?
John must have seen himself a thousand times in this mirror – going out of the front door in the morning, on his way upstairs like she was just now. It must have an image of him locked away somewhere in its depths. Why, then, when what she wants more than anything else in the world is a glimpse of him, does it refuse to give her anything but her own, blank face?
The extractor fan whirrs while I polish the mirror my mother probably looks in every morning – does she still look, I wonder? And if she does, does she recognise herself there? My own face is close to the glass as I work. I breathe on the mirror, then rub it with my cloth to shine it. Is there something of Mum’s reflection left behind the glass? Or inside it, maybe? Merging with mine now as I rub and rub?
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John must have seen himself a thousand times in this mirror – going out of the front door in the morning, on his way upstairs like she was just now. It must have an image of him locked away somewhere in its depths. Why, then, when what she wants more than anything else in the world is a glimpse of him, does it refuse to give her anything but her own, blank face?
- after you'd gone, by Maggie O'Farrell
The extractor fan whirrs while I polish the mirror my mother probably looks in every morning – does she still look, I wonder? And if she does, does she recognise herself there? My own face is close to the glass as I work. I breathe on the mirror, then rub it with my cloth to shine it. Is there something of Mum’s reflection left behind the glass? Or inside it, maybe? Merging with mine now as I rub and rub?
- The Weaning, by Hannah Vincent
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