by Colette Coen
At a triptych of mirrors I pluck and pull the thick black hairs of my crossed and knotted brow. I move the Tweed and the Yardley to get a closer look, focusing as each hair surrenders its bulbous root. In the left-hand mirror I glimpse the perfectly shaped arches framing her questioning eyes. She would brush and tweeze every day, then with a ladylike spit would scour at the tablet of mascara, and comb through the clumps.
I used to play with the mirrors, making an infinity of images to divine the future or relive the past.
Now, ignoring the tidied death bed, I twist her lipstick and apply it like a kiss. I whisper my goodbyes as my hands run across her dressing table and the little bits of nonsense that made her life. Then I straighten the wings and the mirror finally reflects only my own eyes.
Colette Coen is currently writing short stories, flash and poetry while eating Bournville chocolate.