The Mirror

 

The Mirror

The rusty frame contains a million bits, gathered in broken corners,

 Never reflected in the mirror,

It's a mute spectator to the woman you were and 

to the woman who gazes into the mirror today,

Tracing every wrinkle, the greys

and every little hair out of place.

 The rusty frame; a Monument,

 It must contain the soil and dust from that suitcase,

the one in which it traveled all the way up here!

It must have been a steel suitcase then,

Like it always has been shown,

in those movies that have aged along with you..

The steel box must have been held by Grandfather

And the mirror must have rattled around a bit in the journey...

 It embodies the man and the father he was.

Distant like most, 

But then, he remembered to pack for you this mirror;

His acceptance of your journey into womanhood,

 And his reminder for you,

To neatly tuck your hair, and line your doe eyes with Kohl.

Something he used to do,

Before dropping you off at school.

I wonder what you must have felt... 

Your young 21-year-old self,

dressing in front of this rectangular frame!

I wonder if you felt the pride of surviving this strange city,

Its language and people welcoming you with Dandelion garlands. 

Its winters , cracking your skin,

And freezing the coconut oil that Grandma had made!

I wonder if you knew 

That decades later,

Your daughter would sit here,

 Trying to trace within this rusty rectangular frame,

Even a quarter of the strength that you've held for decades.

I don't see it now, I don't think I ever will...

Your reflection mother- a mirage, spilling beyond this little space!