The strangeness of morning is a welcome relief from the chaos of my dreams. I try to move but feel weighed down as if my memory of futile dream walking has projected to my reality. No, it is merely thirty five pounds of my offspring draped across the duvet, pinning my legs to the soft bed. With a sleepy sigh I roll him to the other side of the bed, wishing a shower and coffee could be injected into my soul, relieving me of my nightmares.
The mirror comes into focus and I am puzzled. Who will I be today? Am I, in fact me? Or is it you? Is that my mother standing there or a frumpy young psych patient in desperate need of a makeover? Will peace and pleasantry rule this day? Likely it will be anger and impatience.
There you are, looking at me. Waiting for me. Come away from the reflection, you are not yet you. Wait on me and help me become a person. Then you can be yourself. One day.
But you are wrong child, from the day you were born my life became yours. My time, my speech, my every decision. Perhaps you think you are reflecting me, mother to son, teacher and student, role model and clay. But I await your every movement, every cry. The mood of my personality revolves around the one you display.
This mirror of mine shows you at every glance. I lost the right to reflect myself, because it was never about me. Not about your father, not about my future. It has always been about the light that carries on when I am gone. When I am laid in the Earth, you will look in the mirror and there I will be, reflecting you.