The Woman in the Mirror
"I'll take it," I said, pointing to the scratched mahogany dresser with its tarnished brass handles.
My brother raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I was sure no one would want this. And we should throw it out."
But as I stood before it now, gazing at my reflection in the mirror behind it, what I was really looking for were traces of her—the woman with green eyes and dark auburn hair who once stood in this very spot. Instead, all I saw were my blue eyes and blonde hair.
The double dresser was my mother's until she moved into a nursing home three months ago. My brother and I had spent days cleaning out her apartment, deciding what to keep, what to donate, and what to discard. Each object carried memories, but this dresser—this was different.
I ran my index finger gently along the top, feeling the bumps and dents in the wood beneath my fingertip. For a moment, I closed my eyes and saw the dresser and my mother as they were when I was five.
Back then, the mahogany was flawless and smooth, stained a rich burgundy and topped with a finish so shiny I could see my reflection. The brass drawer handles gleamed like gold against the dark wood. A heavy, beveled mirror hung on the wall behind it, framing whoever stood before it in dignified importance.
On the top of the dresser sat her prized vanity set: a silver-plated, hand-held mirror, a long-handled brush with soft bristles, and a comb with teeth so fine that they looked like silver threads.
Every morning, I sat cross-legged on my mother's bed, watching as she stood before the dresser and mirror getting ready for the day. Her ritual was always the same. Predictable and comforting.
First, she brushed her hair until it fell in soft curls around her face. Sometimes, it crackled with static, and sparks glinted in her natural auburn highlights. Then she slid open her top drawer and took out a gold compact of pressed powder. She clicked it open, dabbed a powder puff in it, and smoothed powder over her face. Next came my favourite part. She raised her eyebrows and, with feathered strokes, she swept a pencil the color of a russet leaf across them until they formed perfect arcs.
Finally, she leaned forward, nose almost touching the mirror. With swift precision, she applied a creamy lipstick that made her mouth look like she had eaten a bowl of red currants. She placed a folded tissue between her slightly parted lips and gently pressed them together. When she removed the tissue, a perfect red impression of her lips was in the centre.
By the time she moved into a nursing home at 95, the vibrant woman who had taken such pride in her appearance was a ghost of the past. Time had helped itself to her mind and her body. Her beautiful green eyes were now shrunken, like the raisin eyes of apple dolls. Her hair was a thin, dull gray that her gnarled fingers could no longer coax into curls.
My brother once asked her, “Where’s the mother I knew who always looked like a million bucks?” I winced when he told me he’d said that. But I felt guilty because I sometimes looked for that woman too.
Restoring the dresser became a labour of love. The decades-old burgundy stain bubbled and blistered under the furniture stripper I applied. After wiping away the last traces of both stain and stripper, I guided a sander back and forth over the bare wood. As I did, I was sure the unmistakable scent of Evening in Paris leached from the wood. It had been my mother’s go-to perfume, and every Christmas my father would buy her a bottle. She kept the blue glass bottle on her dresser and spritzed a little inside her wrists and behind her ears on special occasions. Could the scent still be embedded in the wood after all this time? I almost convinced myself it was.
The grain of the mahogany that emerged as I worked was even more beautiful than I had hoped. I applied a protective finish to the wood, cleaned and polished the brass handles until they shone, and then carefully screwed them back into place. Finally, I moved the dresser and mirror into my bedroom.
Only when I stood before the mirror did I realize that I’d hoped to see a glimpse of the woman with the auburn hair and red lips who once stood in my place. But she wasn’t there. Before I could think about what I was doing, I found red lipstick and smoothed it on. I blotted my lips with a tissue and looked at the imprint left behind. There she is, I thought.
And I smiled at her reflection.
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Charming! Could just feel the emotions all through the narrative . I was transported back to my own childhood as my mother went through her amazingly similar rituals . Nice treat for Mother’s Day. Thank you!
What a beautiful ode to your wonderful mother. Thank you for sharing her with us!