I hold the hand held broken compact mirror up to my eye, so close that only one eye fits to reflect back. The whites of my eyes looked aged, brown spots and red veins creeping. I turn my head, move my eyes, to see other discolorations on my eye ball I may have missed, the softness outlining brown iris. Soft small wrinkles frame the corners, long black eye lashes shade from above. The bags below my eyes are now permanent, soft, tendered, discolored, just like my Nani's and Ammu's were.
I stare hard at my one eye. Did her eyes look like mine? I remember they were lighter, mocha colored eyes and mine were deeper, espresso-like. But did they look like mine, otherwise? When did the brown spots and creeping veins appear in her eyes? When did the softness outlining her brown iris blur? When did her eyes get lighter? When did the soft lines turn hard? When did she stop seeing herself? I blink hard, hoping that when open, it'll be her eye that stared back. It was just mine, squinting back.
The mirror was unhinged and the gold colored metal on the back was rubbed off till it was silver. It was the compact mirror Mom had carried in her purse for years. I had bought it for her the summer I went to Paris from a streetside vendor when I was 18 yrs old. I was going through an impressionist phase - the front of the mirror compact had a Degas field of blurry flowers. I couldn't afford much at 18 yrs old, but this I could afford. She carried it in her purse ever since that summer. On her breaks at work, she used it to pluck her eye brows or to apply her Avon eyeliner. For fourteen years her eyes looked into this mirror.
I salvaged it on my last trip home. I found it under my parents' bathroom sink, on a pile of cosmetic jewelery that was intended of the thrift store. I had picked it up, remembering vaguely that this had passed through my hands first. I pocketed it immediately, without giving a second thought, keeping it close, the way I kept all her "special things" close.
What did she see when she looked into this mirror? What reflected back at her? There's a certain magic in reflection and a certain power in knowing that this compact is what Mom looked into for fourteen years of her life. Looking at a mirror is vulnerable, stark, revealing. It's making eye contact with yourself when no one else will. She once told me that she stopped seeing herself when she looked in the mirror - she said it was like she was looking at someone else. So what did she then, when she looked in this mirror? Who did she see? Was her essence captured in the reflection? Did she leave a piece of herself behind in this mirror?
When did we stop making eye contact? Can I save it, is it to late? I'm looking for her, I'm looking and seeking. But when I look at the reflection, I just see my sad eye looking back at me. Can she see me? Wherever she is, can she see?
I stare hard at my one eye. Did her eyes look like mine? I remember they were lighter, mocha colored eyes and mine were deeper, espresso-like. But did they look like mine, otherwise? When did the brown spots and creeping veins appear in her eyes? When did the softness outlining her brown iris blur? When did her eyes get lighter? When did the soft lines turn hard? When did she stop seeing herself? I blink hard, hoping that when open, it'll be her eye that stared back. It was just mine, squinting back.
The mirror was unhinged and the gold colored metal on the back was rubbed off till it was silver. It was the compact mirror Mom had carried in her purse for years. I had bought it for her the summer I went to Paris from a streetside vendor when I was 18 yrs old. I was going through an impressionist phase - the front of the mirror compact had a Degas field of blurry flowers. I couldn't afford much at 18 yrs old, but this I could afford. She carried it in her purse ever since that summer. On her breaks at work, she used it to pluck her eye brows or to apply her Avon eyeliner. For fourteen years her eyes looked into this mirror.
I salvaged it on my last trip home. I found it under my parents' bathroom sink, on a pile of cosmetic jewelery that was intended of the thrift store. I had picked it up, remembering vaguely that this had passed through my hands first. I pocketed it immediately, without giving a second thought, keeping it close, the way I kept all her "special things" close.
What did she see when she looked into this mirror? What reflected back at her? There's a certain magic in reflection and a certain power in knowing that this compact is what Mom looked into for fourteen years of her life. Looking at a mirror is vulnerable, stark, revealing. It's making eye contact with yourself when no one else will. She once told me that she stopped seeing herself when she looked in the mirror - she said it was like she was looking at someone else. So what did she then, when she looked in this mirror? Who did she see? Was her essence captured in the reflection? Did she leave a piece of herself behind in this mirror?
When did we stop making eye contact? Can I save it, is it to late? I'm looking for her, I'm looking and seeking. But when I look at the reflection, I just see my sad eye looking back at me. Can she see me? Wherever she is, can she see?
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