we are all broken.

a complex web of problems and a girl that is Me - ramblings from my brain.

1

I BROKE THE MIRROR.

The beautiful mirror with the red pine frame;

I was the one who broke it.

That mirror.

Such an important part of the bathroom.

A reflection, a shot of our lives hanging on the pink paint-flaking walls.

Now an ugly space. Blank and empty.

It's funny what we miss. What we take for granted. We don't know how much it's loved until it's gone.

I guess it's the same for people.

Cathy with the sun-hair.

Leonard Rivera.

Devon

and Lucas.

I guess it's the same for everything... in the end...

I stand surveying the pieces. Angular shards. A different perspective of the room; our faces a patchwork - our shattered reflections.

It was weird. The shards were opening up insights to different dimensions. Vortexes. Versions of the world, different from the one I'm in. I wonder what it would be like, on the other side.

I offer Mike a Coffee. He stares at it in my hand but does not receive it. I look into the warm swirling liquid; the little grains like rock melt into the rest of the lava-milk.

He looks down at the mirror and rubs the back of his neck. I can tell he is as disappointed as I am.

Mike's eyes are dark and bags lie under them as if someone has shaded his face with a thick 9B pencil. He sighs and smiles and takes it off me, (the coffee), nudging the little shards into one pile with the toe of his slipper. He is sad because Mum bought that mirror. We both miss Mum...

And poor baby Grace.

He leaves the room, indicating I should start sweeping, whilst he continues working. I wait until he is gone and I hear the familiar sound of the study door being closed.

I'm crouched next to the glass that's pooled on the floor.

What did that mirror see?

Those little pieces.

Sentimental. I know it's silly, missing that beautiful mirror with the red pine frame, but I haven't known the bathroom any different. Haven't seen that spot naked and bare. It's always been there. And just like that... it's gone.

Was the mirror happy – if mirrors could be happy...?

I lift a little portion running it through my fingers. It's in the shape of a kite though not symmetrical. Not straight.

I place my fingers on the small scrap.

Did the mirror see mum... before she went?

Did it ever get to see her smiling face, ruffling her hair and applying a small touch of makeup?

Did mum ever touch this glass – ever drag her fingers across her reflection?

I turn to the frame, admiring the soft pine border, a layer of dust mounting the edging.

It's funny, dust. It's like a little time capsule of people and objects:

A bit of skin.

A thread from a jumper.

Was mum in that dust?

Or Grace?

Perhaps.