Reflections

Contains sensitive content: Themes of grief and illness.

I have hung on this wall for thirty-seven years, watching the light change from morning gold to evening amber as it filters through the sheer curtains of this bedroom. My frame is oak, worn smooth by countless hands that have touched my edges, and my surface has witnessed more than any silent observer should.

It began in 1988, when they first hung me here in the master bedroom of this Spanish-style home, three blocks from the Pacific. The salt air would drift through the open windows, carrying the scent of kelp and the distant sound of waves against the bluffs. I watched as Amy arranged her things on the white-painted dresser below me—her silver brush set, a small ceramic dish for earrings, and the bottle of White Shoulders perfume that would become as much a part of her as her reflection.

In those early days, I reflected a young mother with shoulder-length auburn hair, carefully styled in the feathered waves that were fashionable then. She would stand before me in her power suits—navy blazers with pronounced shoulder pads, pencil skirts, and pumps with sensible heels. Her lipstick was always coral pink, applied precisely by someone who understood that appearances mattered in 1990s corporate America. She worked for a real estate company in Newport Beach, and I watched her transform each morning from sleepy mother to confident professional.

But my favorite moments were when little Emma would sneak in.

The child was perhaps four when she first discovered the magic of my reflection. She would drag a chair from the kitchen—I could hear the legs scraping against the terracotta tiles in the hallway—and climb up to see herself fully. Her blonde hair would catch the morning light like spun gold, and she would twirl in her mother's oversized blazers, the fabric pooling around her tiny feet. Her favorite game was princess, and she would drape costume jewelry around her neck, multiple strands of pearls and chunky gold chains that Amy had saved from the eighties, now relegated to a young girl's dress-up box.

"I'm going to be a beautiful princess," Emma would whisper to my surface, her small hand pressed against the cool glass. "And I'll live in a castle by the ocean and have a pink dress that sparkles."

Sometimes Amy would find her there; instead of scolding, she would join in. Mother and daughter would dance together in their stocking feet on the hardwood floor, Madonna's "Like a Prayer" playing from the boombox on the nightstand. I reflected their joy—Amy in her slip and Emma in an oversized t-shirt that read "California Dreamin'" in faded letters. These were the golden moments, when the room filled with laughter and the afternoon sun painted everything warm.

As Emma grew, so did the complexity of what I witnessed. The little girl who once pretended to be a princess now stood before me at twelve, wearing baggy jeans and flannel shirts tied around her waist, her hair in the choppy layers every girl wanted in 1996. She would practice different expressions—the studied nonchalance that preteens cultivate, the eye rolls, the practiced pouts. Amy would watch from the doorway sometimes, a wistful smile on her face as she recognized her own teenage years in her daughter's experimentation.

"Mom, did you ever feel like you didn't know who you were supposed to be?" Emma asked one evening, standing before me in a baby tee that read "Girl Power" in glittery letters.

Amy joined her daughter at my surface, now wearing the more relaxed fashions of the late nineties—straight-leg jeans and a simple white blouse. The power suits had given way to a softer professional wardrobe as the workplace changed.

"Every day," Amy admitted, smoothing Emma's hair. "But that's the beauty of growing up. You get to try on different versions of yourself until you find the one that fits."

I reflected on their profiles as they stood side by side—the resemblance unmistakable in the slope of their noses, the set of their shoulders, and the way they both tilted their heads when thinking.

But not all moments were gentle. I also witnessed the arguments between Amy and Robert, Emma's father. They would stand before me while Amy removed her jewelry each night, her movements sharp with anger or slow with sadness, depending on the nature of their discord. Robert would pace behind her, his reflection moving in and out of my frame like a ghost.

"You're never here," Amy would say, pulling earrings from her ears more forcefully than necessary. "Emma asked me yesterday why Daddy doesn't love us anymore."

"That's not fair," Robert would reply, but his voice lacked conviction. I could see in his reflection the distance that had grown between them, the way his eyes never quite met hers in my surface.

The year 2003 brought changes that no one expected. I watched Amy discover the lump during her nightly routines, her hands moving across her chest with the practiced motion of monthly self-exams. I saw the moment her fingers stopped, and I saw her face change from casual concentration to sharp fear. She stood very still for a long time, then called Robert's name, her voice smaller than I had ever heard.

The months that followed were a blur of medical appointments and treatments. Amy's reflection began to change in ways that went beyond fashion. The auburn hair I had reflected for fifteen years fell out in clumps, leaving her scalp bare and vulnerable. She wore soft cotton scarves—jewel-toned silks that brought color back to her pale face. Emma, now seventeen and beautiful in that effortless way of teenagers, would help her mother tie these scarves, their hands working together with the practiced intimacy of shared hardship.

"You're still beautiful, Mom," Emma would say, and I reflected the truth of this—Amy's beauty had simply changed form, becoming something more essential, more brave.

But I also reflected Amy's private moments, when she thought no one was watching. She would stand before me without the scarves, her hands tracing the sharp angles of her face, her fingers gentle on the pale dome of her head. Sometimes she would cry silently, her tears catching the light like scattered diamonds. Other times, she would simply stand and breathe, as if using my surface to remind herself that she was still alive and fighting.

Emma was in college when her father left. I watched Amy pack his things—the ties that hung in the closet, the cologne bottles on the dresser, the framed photos that showed happier times. She moved mechanically, folding his shirts into neat squares, placing his watches in their boxes. When Emma came home for spring break in 2007, she found her mother sitting on the floor before me, surrounded by cardboard boxes and twenty years of shared life.

"He said he couldn't handle it anymore," Amy whispered as Emma sank beside her. "The sickness, the uncertainty. He said he still loved me, but..."

I reflected them on the hardwood floor—mother and daughter in their jeans and sweaters, holding each other as the afternoon light slanted through the windows. Emma had grown into a young woman of twenty-one, her blonde hair now styled in the pin-straight lengths that were popular then, her face still soft with youth, but her eyes holding a new maturity.

"Get up, Mom," Emma said finally, pulling Amy to her feet. "Dance with me."

They had no music this time but danced anyway, swaying gently in front of my surface. I reflected on their movement—tentative at first, then more confident, as if they remembered that they could still find joy, even amid heartbreak.

The treatment was successful, or so the doctors said. Amy's hair grew back, silver now instead of auburn, styled in a softer cut that framed her face. She returned to work, though part-time, and I watched her rebuild her life with the careful attention of someone who understood how fragile happiness could be. Emma graduated and moved to Los Angeles for her marketing job, but she came home frequently, bringing stories of city life and boyfriends who never seemed quite right.

For a while, things were peaceful. I reflected Amy's quiet contentment as she prepared for her day—no longer the rushed efficiency of her younger years, but a more measured approach to living. She wore comfortable clothes now, flowing tunics and soft cardigans in colors that complemented her silver hair. The coral lipstick had given way to subtler shades of rose and berry.

But cancer, I learned, is a patient enemy.

It returned in 2024, and this time it was different. I watched Amy grow smaller and more fragile, as if disappearing from the inside out. The treatments were harsher now, or perhaps she was simply older, less resilient. Emma moved back home to care for her, setting up a bed in the living room because the stairs had become too complicated.

But Amy insisted on coming to me each morning, even when it required Emma's help to walk the hallway. She would stand before my surface in her soft pajamas and knitted robes, her reflection ghostly pale but determined.

"I'm still me," she would whisper to my surface, her hands touching her face as if to confirm her existence. "I'm still here."

Emma would stand behind her, hands gentle on her mother's shoulders, and I would reflect their love—fierce and protective and tinged with the terrible knowledge that time was running out.

The morning Amy couldn't get out of bed, I knew. The afternoon passed without her visit, evening, and night. I reflected only on the empty room, the unmade bed, and the silence that felt different from all the other silences I had known.

Emma came to me three days later, dressed in black—a simple dress that spoke of grief and finality. Her face was swollen from crying, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She stood before my surface and began dancing, just as she and her mother had done so many times. But this dance was different—slow and solitary and filled with a sorrow that seemed to emanate from her bones.

"I will miss you," she whispered to the empty room. I knew she was speaking not just to her mother's memory, but to all of it—the childhood games of dress-up, the teenage experimentation, the adult conversations, the shared heartbreak, the quiet moments of understanding that pass between mother and daughter.

For thirty-seven years, I have been a silent witness to the stories that unfold in this room. I have reflected joy and sorrow, love and loss, the daily rituals of living, and the profound moments of transformation. I have watched a little girl become a woman, a young mother age into wisdom, a family break apart and reconstitute itself in new forms.

And now, as Emma stands before me in her grief, I find that I, too, have been changed by what I have witnessed. Where once I was simply a mirror—a passive surface that showed what was placed before it—I have become something more. I have become a keeper of memories, a witness to the sacred ordinariness of human life.

"I will miss you too," I whisper back to Emma, though my voice is only the soft sigh of wind through the open window, the gentle creak of the house settling, and the distant sound of waves against the coastal bluffs.

But somehow, she hears me. She places her hand flat against my surface, and for a moment, I swear I can feel the warmth of her palm through the glass. Then she turns and walks away, leaving me to reflect on the empty room, the afternoon light, the dust motes dancing in the silence.

But I am not really empty. I hold within my silver depths all the moments I have witnessed—every laugh, every tear, every dance, every quiet morning routine. I hold the image of Amy at twenty-five, radiant in her coral lipstick and power suit. I have Emma at four, draped in costume jewelry and dreams. I held their final dance together, and mother and daughter swayed to music only they could hear.

I am a mirror, but I am also a memory. And as long as I hang on this wall, as long as the light continues to find my surface, I will keep reflecting not just what is, but what was, and what will always be—the love that connects us across time, the moments that make us human, the dances that keep us moving forward even when our hearts are breaking.

The waves continue to crash against the bluffs outside, just as they did thirty-seven years ago, just as they will long after I am gone. And in their endless rhythm, I find peace, an understanding that some things endure beyond our brief reflections, some love transcends even the final goodbye.