She'd lived there for so long, stayed so stuck in her routines that parts of her had seeped into the very foundations of the house. Pale walkways were worn into the richly stained floorboards from her constant flittering about the place, always counterclockwise around the house, the imprints of her feet by every window.
Her sweat stained her favourite sunchair, favourite pair of gloves, her sickbed where she struggled for her final breaths. No matter how many times we cover or clean or outright change the furniture, those stains reappear as if she was still spending her days and nights in those same rooms.
Every mirror holds some fraction of her face, be it the way your mouth seems more curved like hers or the pattern of your freckles shifts before your eyes or the way the light catches off hair that distinctly isn't yours. In some mirrors you can still see her yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Her sweat stained her favourite sunchair, favourite pair of gloves, her sickbed where she struggled for her final breaths. No matter how many times we cover or clean or outright change the furniture, those stains reappear as if she was still spending her days and nights in those same rooms.
Every mirror holds some fraction of her face, be it the way your mouth seems more curved like hers or the pattern of your freckles shifts before your eyes or the way the light catches off hair that distinctly isn't yours. In some mirrors you can still see her yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment