After Carrie Mae Weems ‘The Kitchen Table Series’
Hands placed just so, I instructed the mirror to document transformation – becoming my mother with nothing more than a gesture and the sheen of bright red gloss. Who knew ten years later, I’d avoid mirrors that threw her in my face. Did I say all mirrors? Except I was crashing them against concrete. Finding the most triangular edge. Digging the earth of my body for a reflection I could believe. Hospital windows wouldn’t break. I’d know. That was a long time ago. Different time. Today my mother’s hands are a constant shiver. I stand behind her. Frame her hands in mine and pull the lipstick across. The mirror looks at us. I don’t break it. I don’t avoid her eyes staring from my face and hers at the same time. How could I? I’ve now lived long enough to know what it took to be her.
