I have a cruel pink mirror – it tells no lies, blurs no lines
Hooded eyes gaze in horror
At the truth of my age
A magnified stare that I can’t ignore.
A dark tendril of hair reaches out from my chin
Lips not puckered, but seem so
Lines etched – mouth now thin.
There’s a cluster of grey, where the blond used to be
The fade to mousy is thorough; strands are brittle and wan.
Once taut arms now shrouded with skin
Are fluid and dimpled
Shift like drapes in the wind
My down dogs are not simple.
The stretch from the babies sits loose and much lower
The breasts that once suckled are now flattened and faded.
Yet my body is strong – I can plank and lift weights
Hike for hours on hills, ski the steeps, and stack wood.
I seek refuge in writing, in painting, in nature
Tethered to loved ones, to water, to heartbeats.
I have time to reflect, a soul search as I stand
Learning to cherish the woman –
With the pink mirror in hand.
The Story of the Pink Mirror
In the early spring of 2004, my two brothers, father, husband, and I spent several days at our beloved family cottage cleaning it out so that it could be sold. The shared grief was a heavy burden competing with the sweat and toil of purging 45 years of family life.
As the men went to the garage and dug through decades of wood scraps, tools, paint tins, gas cans, broken toasters, coffee makers, and a vintage outboard motor, I retreated to my parents’ bathroom to empty the linen cupboard and vanity drawers. I found the empty bottle of my mother’s Lily of the Valley perfume, the smell still evident as I inhaled every waft of fragrance from the jar. Her beaten-up bits of makeup, a broken compact, dried mascara, and an orange lipstick that somehow looked pretty on her all went in the garbage.
Mom was now living in a long-term care facility. On good days, she knew who I was, and I would take her out to Swiss Chalet for lunch. She would remember how much she liked to drink and would order a quarter chicken dark and a scotch on the rocks. The flustered server would glance at the large clock above the door, 11:45 am, and then at me. I would follow up with the chicken salad and water with lemon, no ice. Mom often asked for a refill.
At the back of the top drawer, beyond her fuzzy hairbrush and rusted tweezers, I found the mirror. It was small and round, with a thick pink rim and a suction cup at the back. As I held it up, I was shocked at the power of the magnification. Every out-of-place eyebrow hair, large pore, and broken blood vessel was starkly evident. The lines around my eyes and mouth were threatening yet easily overlooked. I tucked it into the “keep” bag. I knew that as my eyesight faded and my wrinkles didn’t, it would be useful.
It now sits in my vanity drawer, beside shiny tweezers, a collection of solid and liquid concealers, an eyebrow pencil, highlighter, and sundry other camouflage products I use to soften the harshness of the visage staring back at me.
Each time I pick up the mirror, I have a not-so-gentle reminder of life and loss. Of ageing and acceptance.