“What is it that is so hard for her to understand?” I thought to myself as I was standing right behind her while she was crying in front of her reflection in a long, antique, wooden mirror. She was on her knees, weeping, the way a baby does. It’s like she decided to go back in time and ask for safety in an uncomplicated manner. It’s as if she was four years old and she wanted to feel that grand, unconditional, unexplainable, fulfilling presence that would hold her, kiss her right eyebrow and fill her broken pieces with pure gold. She’d gasp for air occasionally, because deep down her heart she knows those tears are heavy for her chest, so heavy that her lungs beg for air.
I stroked her hair the way a person does to another before wording “it’s okay, I’m here” only I was silent and words did not come out of my mouth.
Why was she so blind? Does she not feel the power that’s orchestrating her life so artistically, pushing her around saying “this is important” or “pay attention to this, this is what matters”? If only she could take a deep breath and see how beautiful she is when no one is looking. She’d see how her light scare off the shadows. Maybe if she saw that, she’d stop crying. But maybe that’s the point of it all, maybe she should figure it all out herself.
I wanted to tell her everything she couldn’t see. But I couldn’t, because I wasn’t in the reflection, it was just her and the mirror. And maybe she was me somehow, maybe that’s the point of it all; maybe I should figure it all out by myself.
© 2015 ALIA SULTAN