I Stood before the Mirror
I stood before the mirror this morningstudying my chin’s newest collapse.Two more groovesinside the old familiars,parentheses doubled for emphasis.A sunburst of creases radiate from my lower lip,as though drawn into being by an invisible purse string.I tug my cheeks smooth.Ah, yes . . . that’s the way I looked yesterday.Or perhaps it was the day before.Does it matter?These new grooves are only a surprisebecause inside my face,inside me,they don’t exist.Standing here, though, before the truth-telling mirror,I am reminded of another time,another mirror,another face—also mine.Many miles away my son lay dying.We all knew except,perhaps,he.Control of his body slipping away,comprehension, too.Visions we could not share galloping through his brain.We watched him, son, husband, father leaving,all of us watching.We had been so certain he had come to stay.And during those watching days,during those months that stretched into years,I rose each morning,stood before the mirrorand saw that in the blessed darkmy face hadfallenagain.It didn’t matter particularly,that fallen face.More a curiosity than a concern.Watching your son die,even from a great distance,teaches you to care little about such things.When you go out into the world there is so much you cannot say.Your face is only doing its best to speak for you.But still I stood then,toothbrush in hand,studying the grieving mother who studied me,the collapse of flesh almost a comfort.A substitute for the tears,so nearly vanquished bythelonggrieving.Now,when even grief lives far away,as though all this happened in another lifetime,to another mother,I find strange comfort in this meticulously outlined chin.The comfortthat comes with knowingthat deathwill rescue us all.
This will probably be the opening piece for the memoir I’ve been talking about, a memoir that will now be primarily in prose. The title for the whole is one I’m returning to: When Even Grief Lives Far Away.