The Young Girl in the Mirror

youth and beauty are never lost.

Everything is dark. Decades have passed since my golden frame last saw the warm light of day. The room is damp- I can feel the cracks in my glass slowly opening, and pieces of what once was glorious silver fall apart and shatter to the ground. The violet of the wall around me has probably faded, and its beauty has certainly ceased forever. No brush will ever stroke its cold concrete again and its color will never be restored.

Footsteps.

Footsteps! Oh, how long has it been since I last heard this melodious sound? It is music to my ears. Suddenly, a thump at the door, someone is trying to open it, and, if I could, I’d run over and help them at once. Soon enough, light peeks into the room and a human head appears at the door, filling my rusty heart with joy. A hand comes in next, followed by a whole body, and it looks in vain for a light switch, or a window that can be opened. At last, it finds a candle, and lights it.

Light.

I’m blinded by this sudden beam. As I regain sight, I see a woman before me. Her perfect hair of a dark, worn out ginger, her lips of a cold, pink shade, her eyes of a deep but lively brown. She slowly walks, admiring her surroundings. I too stare at the room, astonished by how it has changed, and how it has not. The spiderwebs interlacing around my glass make it hard for me to see, but I recognize the dull, crusty mahogany closet, which once was bright and whole, and the dusty, navy couch, that long ago was soft and warm. The woman, who I deduce is around her forties, starts coming closer. Her presence obstructs my view, but I can peek at the small room behind her, and see the vivid purple wall, still intact and beautiful.

I now focus on the woman. Her posture is elegant and respectful and her shiny, golden necklace is in perfect contrast with her black cashmere sweater, combined with long, mauve flared pants. She looks at me. Her intense gaze penetrates deep into my soul. Her hands start cleaning my glass from the dust and stains, until all is left is the broken glass, sharp and irreparable, concrete proof that nothing is eternal.

She now stares at me. She contemplates her appearance with a despising look and traces the outline of her wrinkles with her long, skinny finger, pressing deeper and deeper every second. She believes that doing so she can be young again, that her skin will glow like it used to, that her age will only be a number. But her wrinkles are like the cracks in my glass, irreparable and abiding. She slowly brings her shaking hand to touch me, stroke my surface, while a tear travels along her cheek. She must’ve been a really beautiful young girl- to me, she still is.

Blood.

She cut her finger with my own age marks. She glances away from her image and races out the door. Her reflection though, stays with me a little longer, and I decide to cherish it amongst many others, between the ones of beautiful, young girls just like her.