Mirror
10th March 2025
There’s an intruder in my house, staring defiantly at me. I scream with all my might and she apes me in a horrific parody.
My voice quivers and shakes, the ‘Help!’ a meek sliver that trembles and dies on my too-dry lips.
‘Mum, what’s the matter?’ A middle aged dowdy woman rushes in, looking all flustered.
Who is she calling Mum?
I look around.
And then it dawns on me, my fear a many headed being that swallows me up in its yawning jowls.
This woman is in cahoots with the intruder.
‘What’s upset you?’ Her voice is gentle as she approaches but I’m not fooled.
I cower, raise my hands to my face, emitting a strangled whine.
‘Go away,’ I manage, just as she’s about to touch me, swatting at her hands
‘And take the intruder with you.’
She scrunches up her eyes. ‘What intruder?’
‘That ugly old hag who’s mimicking me.’ I point and the intruder points right back.
Her accomplice closes her eyes, taking a deep breath as if steadying herself.
What is she planning? What will they do to me?
‘That’s your reflection in the mirror.’
What is she saying? How dare she?
‘You think I’ll be fooled by your silly…’ What’s the word I want? It was there just now, at the tip of my tongue but it’s gone. Poof. I wish the… the… whatsit who’s staring at me and this woman next to me would disappear too. I’m so tired. I want to rest in my own bed without fear of someone getting in, watching and copying my every… whatever it is.
‘Look.’ The person next to me holds something up.
It is familiar. Brown and square. I know what it is. I do. But I can’t… I don’t… I…
‘Your diary.’
That’s it.
‘You started writing it when you were first diagnosed. So you would always remember who you are.’
Of course I remember who I am. I… I…
‘Here, I’ll read out the very first sentences you wrote: My name is Margaret. I am seventy-five years old.’
Seventy-five? Me?
‘I have two children, a son, Robert who lives in Canada and a daughter, Emily who…’
Something clicks in my brain. Ah.
I look at the woman, her head bent as she reads from the book - book, that was the word I was looking for before. My daughter.
Warmth floods my heart. ‘Emily. You are Emily, my little girl.’
Emily looks at me. She is smiling but her eyes sparkle emerald bright with unshed tears.
I cup her beloved face, even as I wonder: When did you get so old? ‘You used to smile just like this, jewels shimmering in your eyes, when you fell down and hurt yourself but were trying so hard to be brave, as you didn’t want your big brother to tease you. Remember?’
Tears fall down her cheeks unchecked as she nods, the shared memory reflected in her eyes.
‘I remember,’ she says.
We don’t say what we are both thinking, that I will forget this, forget her, forget the past, and even myself - agitating at my own reflection in the mirror - very soon. This is the nature of the terrible disease I am cursed with.
But for now, we have this moment.
And it is, it has to be, enough.