When Mirrors Speak

Dear Elena,

I remember wanting to write this slice last year. The idea came early in the morning while Dada got you cleaned up and dressed. In familiar turn-taking fashion, I got your breakfast going and your hair done while he got ready, and then we swapped. I showered and dressed quickly because he needed to leave 30 minutes before us.

I stand in front of the mirror, clipping my hair so I can apply my minimal daily makeup: tinted serum, a barely-there layer of translucent powder, three creamy dots of blush on each cheek, and some mascara. I follow my friend’s trick of flatting the small mirror for the mascara, so I have to look down to apply—you get no messes that way! As I do this, I hear giggles and funny noises coming from your bedroom.

Back then, I thought that could be a slice of your moments with Dada. Then I saw myself applying the mascara on the small mirror and thought of you, watching me do this (which I often avoid), and then I thought about mirrors and reflections.

The idea lingered, but I never gave it the space to grow (Liz would say I didn’t take good care of it), and I’m sure I ended up writing about something different. But the image stayed with me, and several times, I thought of you and me, looking at ourselves in mirrors.

This morning, as I flattened the small mirror once again to apply mascara (after a week of no make-up), I thought of this routine of mine. I thought of how I feel when I look in the mirror—a rush to walk away from it or run to one because I probably have something stuck in my teeth. Mirrors are a weird necessity for me, not something that always brings comfort.

I look up, put the little mascara bottle back in its place, and give myself a few seconds in the larger mirror behind the sink. I look beyond my face and body, noticing the water spots behind the faucet, the post-its with fading messages Dada wrote to me years ago, and the small prints I have of our engagement photos. In them, I see an image of myself I still recognize. Somewhere inside this new body is that person.

Mirrors are storytellers. And they are very good ones. They whisper back the stories your soul already knows. Who you think you are and who you see reflected in it. I often let mirrors make up stories about me that I believe; other times, I walk away before the story reaches its climax. I don’t need to hear the ending.

Here’s what I want you to know about mirrors, Elena. Only you can choose to believe the stories a mirror will tell you. They are your stories. Whenever I feel like the story a mirror is giving me isn’t quite right, I look elsewhere for a truer reflection. I go to those who know me. Your dad, my mom, close friends. Their stories feel better.

Know your mirrors, Mamashanta. Know who you are and when to find genuine, kinder stories about yourself.

Thank you to the Two Writing Teachers community for this fantastic second-year writing together. I felt your company each day I showed up here, and I am forever grateful.