Mirror Me

13: The Town of Arrant Eyes

I awoke with a start, my head dripping with sweat. The dream still fresh in my mind invaded my emotions. I clutched my aching chest attempting and failing to catch my breath. It was then I noticed a bruise forming on my wrist in the shape of a hand. The fingertips pressed into my flesh; the tips appearing as claws stung when I touched them. Something told me that this dream was more real than I liked it to be. Certainly this was not the most assuring realization to wake up to, but nevertheless I was still trapped in a world I knew nothing about. I rolled over on the hard stony ground and stared at the morning sky.

The circle of tall grass around me swayed to the brisk wind rolling off the side of the mountain. I imagined the grass parting to reveal a doorway home, but no such luck would come to me.

I thought of my mother and the two times I had seen her cry. The first time was for simple reasons, a family get-together, all of us sharing stories around the table, passing food, and laughing. Those were joyful tears.

The second time were sorrowful tears. It was the day my father was buried, and like with most burials there was a rush to get dressed and prepare for the ceremony. I remember hurrying down the hall to find my black socks when I passed by her room.

"Mom," I asked, poking my head past the door. "Have you seen my black socks?

"They are in the hamper," she said sternly. "Now get your sister ready. We leave in ten minutes."

Under normal circumstances I would have immediately followed her order, but I was stopped by a foreign sound. She sat at her makeup desk; her face illuminated in bright light. In one hand the eyeliner trembled. In the other hand rested a tear soaked tissue. I knew she was trying to mask the pain and force the makeup to conceal her emotions, but the tears eventually won and after ten minutes of struggling, she gave up. Though the day presented many dark clouds and little sun, she wore sunglasses to hide behind.

For someone who took great pride in their appearance, it was the first time I saw her leave the house with nothing more than lipstick on her face. She did not want to be seen as the grief stricken widow; her pride would never allow that. Instead during the funeral, she sat with her back against the chair and legs crossed, smiling when people passed by with their condolences. I watched her with curious intent like a child at a magic show waiting to see the magician reveal the trick. But as with magic, when the illusion is lifted and the mystery is gone, the awe inspiring effect it once offered can never be claimed again. The sacrifice for truth is too often the innocence of the world. That is why a magician never reveals their secrets and why my mother never lifted her sunglasses that day.

Even as my father was lowered into the ground, my mother's lips remained steady. Yet behind her strong facade I spotted a single tear peek out under her sunglasses and slip down her cheek. It dangled there on her chin for a moment capturing the light and reflecting the many beautiful flower arrangements around us. At last the teardrop fell to her lap vanishing in the fabric of her dress. It was the truth behind her illusion, and a magic trick I prayed I would never have to witness again.