Fiction: Reflection

I wrote this years ago but it’s still one of my favorite pieces:

English: A piece of cameo jewelry.

English: A piece of cameo jewelry. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Staring out the window she remembers: the summer, the laughter; all of it was gone now. When had this happened? When had she become so isolated? She tried to pinpoint the exact moment her life had changed but it was like walking underwater. Her mind was blurry; she found it hard to remember things. Yesterday they came to visit; well at least she thinks so. Today she thinks she will go to the gallery, she hasn’t been in weeks.

She wonders how will she wear her hair? He always liked it loose. When they first met he said it was her hair that had attracted him, He said it reminded him of the fields of wheat, because of its golden colour and how it would sway in the breeze. How long ago had that been?  She hoped he would be at the gallery today. As she continues to stare out the window she thinks of the past, she notices the leaves are beginning to change. It’s fall already, she thinks, why did summer pass so quickly?

The summer always reminds her of him. He was a painter, she always loved artists. He had dark hair and the palest blue eyes. She always thought that he should be the model instead of the painter. She told him that once, all he did was laugh and told her to sit still as he painted her. She wonders why he hasn’t called, surely he must have returned by now. When did he say he was coming home? She shakes her head, she can’t seem to grasp her thoughts, they’re swimming and something is hovering in her mind. What is it that she’s forgetting?

She thinks that she should start getting ready; she feels she’s been sitting at the window forever. As she rises from her chair she’s surprised that she feels dizzy. She hopes it isn’t the flu. She begins to walk toward her vanity; she stops, looking at her room. When had she rearranged it, she begins to feel tired. I must be coming down with the flu.

Sitting down at the vanity she picks up her brush. She turns to face the mirror, she gasps. Staring back at her, mouth gaping is a stranger. She absently reaches and touches her face; the reflection does the same. But this can’t be true, what’s going on? Her mind is frantic. The person in the mirror isn’t her, she searches for answers. She picks up the brush and throws it at the mirror but even through the shattered glass scene peers the vision. The face is similar but how can it be? That face is old, wrinkled and yet it seems to look like her. She collapses causing a photo to fall to the floor near her cocoon body. Her shaking hands reach forward, she sees that they are withered, she screeches and collapses again sobbing. On the back of the photo is written,
“summer 1925”.


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