Reflections

Reflections

A STURDY BOAT

of a woman sails into the shop. She browses the women’s jackets for a moment and then docks at the till.

From inside the tote bag over her shoulder she heaves an oval vanity mirror on to the counter, set in wood and painted cream. It’s a little dusty, but otherwise in perfect condition.

‘Here you are,’ she says, sternly, as though I have insisted that she surrender the mirror to me and she is still cross about it.

‘Thank you,’ I tell her, and I get out the donation form and ask about Gift Aid, which I still don’t fully understand, but I don’t think anybody does.

‘I’m not filling in a form!’ she scoffs. ‘It’s just a mirror – take it or leave it.’ And then she weighs anchor and steams towards the door.

And I am left looking into her mirror.

What has this mirror reflected back to the woman over the years, and how has that reflection changed? I wonder. And what is it lately, that this highly polished glass showed, or did not show, to the woman that she felt the need to

banish it from her home for ever? Did it whisper to her, You are not what you once were

?

The mirror has clearly learned its lesson because it stays quiet for me, showing me myself reversed, left to right, but otherwise exactly how I am. A little shorter than I used to be, still narrow. Lines around my eyes, around my mouth from smiling. I hope to make them deeper if I have the chance. What is left of my hair is swept into a side parting. When the wind blows, it wiggles and whispers, Hey, look

, Eddie can’t admit that he’s nearly bald

. I find, though, that a jolly hat will preserve my vanity. And if the mirror wishes to admonish me for my pride, it keeps that to itself.

I smile at the mirror, and the Eddie that it shows me smiles back.

Not a bad-looking chap, I suppose, given the state of things.

Perhaps there is hope for me yet.