text: I found the mirror when I was very young. I remember that it caught my eye because it was very pink, a little rose splotch in the mud. It was so very clean in the midst of that mess. I know that it’s not the most extraordinary thing to look at- just a pink plastic makeup mirror. But to that little girl, it was fascinating. So I picked it up, and I flipped it over and over in my mittens. Dad never liked me to go out in the cold, so on the rare snow days when he did, I was bundled in thick layers. I could hardly move, and if I fell over I might roll all the way down the mountain. Perhaps that was why it stood out so much. Little girls don’t see a lot of hot pink growing up in a log cabin. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that I liked it. I also understood that I shouldn’t tell my dad about it. We forget how much we understood as children, as soon as we grow up. I took the little pink mirror and hid it in a mitten. He always made me turn out my pockets, whenever I came in, in case of pine-cones. So into the mitten the mirror went. I didn’t take it out to look at it until that evening. It became a secret treasure of mine, this little thing. I didn’t know that it opened at first, didn’t realise what it was. I just liked to look at it, to touch it. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. But I figured it out eventually. I can recall the exact moment I first saw my reflection in it- rather, what should have been my reflection. Ice and water and glass had shown my face to me before, so I knew that there was something wrong with the mirror. It always showed everything else right- the cabin, with its run-down fireplace, dad in his natty armchair, staring at the flames. The woods outside. Every tree, every bird, the sun and the moon and all the stars. It was a mirror, that was what it did. Except that it didn’t reflect me. When I looked at it, I saw a woman. She was old. I mean, I was eight, so anyone over twenty was old, but this lady... she looked ancient. I guess it wasn’t her face, really, just her expression. She had this blank look, just staring at nothing. Her eyes never met mine, no matter what angle I turned her. Of course I was fascinated. I was too young, and maybe a bit too slow, to be scared of her. Why would I be? She was just an image. The fact that she only showed up over me was a bit weird, but I didn’t know anything back then. Maybe this was just something that happened. It was magical, both literally and figuratively. So there I was, with my magic mirror. The days went much the same as they always did, Dad would potter about, doing chores, showing me things, teaching me about nature in that rumbly voice of his. I know now that he wasn’t a well man, that the way I grew up wasn’t normal, but it never troubled me. I was happy, alone with him. The worst I ever experienced was boredom. With the mirror in my room at night, I conquered even that. I studied every little facet of her face, every line, every curve. She was pale, and her hair was a mess- frizzy and tangled. Her eyes never changed, always hollow, blank. Her lips were pressed into a half-hard line, and I couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a grimace. I still don’t know which it was. Of course, I grew up eventually. Everyone does, but I started early. I don’t remember that much about my last few days in the cabin. It’s all kind of hazy. But I’ll never forget when the car showed up. How could I? That car was the end of our quiet little life. I’ve heard a lot of justifications, for why my childhood had to die. I needed to attend school, I needed to socialise with people my own age, I needed to experience life in the real world- needed, needed, needed. They seemed to know so much about what I needed. The last day was the worst. Dad was angry, stomping about, muttering, a dark glint in his eye. I can’t remember what he said, but I remember I was frightened. Scared of his anger, of the shadows on his face. When the social worker came, I reached out to him, but he just turned away, clenching his fists. Take her, he said, take her and go. That was the last time I heard his voice. He was not a well man, so I forgive him. Now. I accept that he was trying his best, that he had no clue what he was doing. But back then? I was just a child, and I hated him. My mirror went from a treasure to an anchor. It was my only solace in those days, my little pink comfort blanket. You might think it odd, but no one ever tried to take it from me. Not the social workers with bags under their eyes, nor the bigger girls that swarmed me like flies. They took everything else, but never the mirror. It was like it was invisible. That was why it was so precious to me, I think. It became the one thing that was really mine, that I didn’t share with anyone. The woman in the glass was like my mother, the pink case like the smell of her perfume. I never knew my mum, so I guess this woman was the only one I ever really had. In hindsight, that’s almost funny. For a long while, I thought that that would be the worst time of my life. Sure, I had my little anchor, but it didn’t protect me from the rest of it. I started going to school, a stony place without even the slightest hint of green. It started off badly. It turns out that living in the woods with only one other person didn’t prepare me for class. I mean, dad taught me to read, sure, but that hardly meant anything. I didn’t know maths, I didn’t know history or geography or science. I didn’t know people. I could live all year in the forest, but two months in the city felt like dying. I started hanging out with the wrong crowd. It’s weird, sometimes the ‘wrong crowd’ are the only ones that’ll accept you. We’d do stupid things- set fires in oil drums, steal from convenience stores, etc. I almost forgot about the mirror, about my little mother in her little frame. I felt like an adult, when I was really still a kid. An angry, stupid kid. That ended as you’d think it would. We all got arrested. There was this guy named... I think it Jim, or something. He took all the blame, since he was the oldest. He had a couple priors, and the judge threw the book at him. I went to the trial, when he was being sentenced, and it’s funny, but they never mentioned that he was an orphan. A lotta that group were. Everyone but me, in fact. Maybe that was why they were so, ‘wrong’. Other kids lied, other kids stole, other kids raged against the world, but it was us that got into trouble for it. Maybe if our folks had been around, they would’ve stood up for us. Jimmy went to prison. Seven years, for stealing a six-pack of beers and a bike. He didn’t even really steal the bike, just took it to get away from the guy chasing him. He was a month away from seventeen, and he was tried as an adult. Grand larceny, armed robbery, and other harsh words were tossed around. All bull. He didn’t have a weapon, not even a pocket knife, and that rusty, piece-of-crap bike was barely worth a twenty. Even so, he got sent away, and we didn’t see him again. The rest of us got off with a warning, but we all suffered Jim’s sentence. Was it guilt? Perhaps. Whatever it was, we drifted apart, and the mirror was my anchor again. I found it under my pillow one night, and I held it tight while I cried. I don’t know why. Even now, I don’t get it. I obviously didn’t care all that much about Jim. I don’t even remember his name, really. But I cried until my pillowcase was soaked. The woman was as distant as ever. For a little while I hated her. I hated her blank stare, looking down, never meeting my eye. I even told her that, once, told her that I hated her. As if she could hear me. That was probably what I wanted, huh? For her to hear me. For me to be as important to her as she was to me. But she was just a reflection. When I got out of that place, I was happier. Hardly bouncing with joy, but no longer quite as miserable. I got a job at some supermarket, stacking shelves. It didn’t pay much, but it kept me off the streets. That was when I met Filly. She called herself Filly because her real name was Felicia, and she didn’t like it. Might have been the only thing she didn’t like. She was a sunny day at the beach, the most positive person I ever met. She was charming, and I was charmed. I told the woman about her. I’d taken to using her as a confidant, as a diary almost. She lingered there, with her pressed lips and frizzy hair, never reacting to a word I said. Best listener in the whole world. I would tell her about my day, about my thoughts, my little frustrations. I told her when I met Filly, the first day she worked at the supermarket. Pretty soon, she was all that I was talking about. Filly did this, Filly said that, Filly’s so cool, so kind, so smart. I wonder if she was writing the same about me. God, I hope not. I’d prefer that she was the cool one. Those days had a kind of subtle tension to them, something I couldn’t understand. Work was suddenly a breeze, but being at home was a quiet torture. I didn’t get it, and God, I’m just realising how much of my life I’ve spent not understanding things. I sound dense! Heh. Maybe I am. I was never more stupid than when she kissed me the first time. We were in the back, getting some supplies for the shelves, and I was talking about... I don’t remember what. She leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips, and all thoughts evaporated. That’s something I forgot to mention; she was brave. The bravest person in the whole world, that’s what I think. Where we lived wasn’t the kindest place for people like her. For people like us. The tension went away, and I finally realised what it was. I loved her. God, I was attracted to her. It was a simple thing, but it had left me stumped. I told the woman in the mirror, of course. Her silence was a welcome friend at this point, it helped me to think. Me and Filly got married after two months. We’d known each other a year at that point, so we weren’t really moving that fast. You couldn’t really get married properly in those days, not two girls or two boys, but we went up a hill, and we talked to God, and He heard us. I know that He did. It was love, so how could it be wrong? We moved in together, happy as could be. Before too long, Filly got a promotion. She’d always worked really hard, and she was charming, and that caught the right people’s attention. It was a regional position, so we moved upstate, to a more tolerant part of the nation. Filly had a lot of stuff, but I only took my clothes and my mirror. She asked me about it once, and I showed her my big secret. I was a bit nervous about that. I’d never told anyone about the woman, never showed anyone. Filly couldn’t see her. To my wife, as to everyone else, the mirror was just a mirror. I was a bit disappointed, and a bit relieved. After all this time, she was still only mine. I couldn’t share her even if I wanted to. The city was nice. Not as nice as the woods, but nicer than the town. There was always so much going on. Those were the golden days, when the sun shone and we were happy. We had each other, we had a bit of comfort and convenience, we had our careers and our long lives ahead of us. We didn’t need anything else. The end of that joy is when I discovered who the woman in the mirror was. I can’t forget that day. Every moment still smoulders in my head. It started out well- a lazy Sunday morning, quiet and warm, lying in each other’s arms. We got out of bed at eleven, ready for anything, ready to take the world by storm. Filly had an interview. God forgive me, but I’d sell my soul if I could have stopped her. She dressed up in her suit and picked up her briefcase, and she stood in the doorway, teetering on the edge with teeth on her lip. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me she was nervous. Damn me to hell, but I reassured her. When I close my eyes, I can still see her on that threshold. Smiling, saying the last words I ever heard her say. See you later, alligator. If I could turn back time, I would tell her I love her. I would rush forwards and pull her in, and never let her go again. But that’s not what I did. In a while, crocodile. The love of my life walked out the door, a little spring in her step. Less than twenty minutes later... ... well, you know what happened. I didn’t learn about it until ten hours later. No one knew we were married, but I was listed as an emergency contact. They called her mother first, ignoring my name on the card. It was she who called me. There’s been an accident. I didn’t hear much after that. I wanted to scream, to run, to find Filly and pick her up and suffuse my soul into her. I would have traded my life for hers. In an instant. But I couldn’t. She was my wife, but no one knew, not even her mother. Back in those days, it was just not something you’d ever tell anyone. So I said goodbye, and I clutched my mirror until it almost broke. The funeral was the worst day of my life. I went as a room mate, as a friend, and I had to pretend that I wasn’t being lowered into the dirt beside her. The car that took her life had taken her beauty, too, and the casket was closed. I wouldn’t have cared. There wasn’t a single thing that could have stopped me from holding her, one last time. Nothing but the strength of coffin-nails, and the weight of her family’s stares. So I whispered my goodbyes, and I played my reduced part. Not the widow torn in two, but just the sad acquaintance. The apartment wasn’t much of a home any more. Filly had a little vanity in one corner of our room, and I sat there, just staring at the ground. I had the mirror in my hand, and another reflecting me in front. I wanted to grieve, but I just sat. A day of acting had frozen me in place. I was still pretending, with no one around. I can’t tell you why, but I found myself looking up, up into my reflection. I was startled to see her. The woman. She’d escaped my little hand-mirror, and now stared back at me. For the first time, I was scared of her. I thought she had come for me, to take my place, to wipe me out, to leave nothing that Filly had loved. But she was just my reflection. I looked into my mirror then. She was still there, but she was looking at me now. Her eyes followed the motion of mine. Fear faded away, replaced by understanding, and then, grief. It was a relief, to cry, to shake, to scream and thrash in that room, alone. Like I said, that was the worst day of my life. I hardly look at the mirror any more. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t need to. All those years I had it were leading up to that moment, the moment when I was alone in my room and I couldn’t grieve. The woman is gone now. She was always me, and now all I see is my reflection. All that time. It’s comforting to think that that was the worst my life will be. I think that’s what it was showing me anyway. Hard to tell now. These days, it’s just a mirror.