Were we born into another tradition we would have covered the mirrors. But we are far from tradition; we are people rather short on traditional pathways. There are some vague Anglican gestures to be made. There is the Globe's death-notice department to be contacted. There are a few relatives to be called. We search the lonely old house for anything that had meaning and we search for meaning itself.
A pretty portrait taken six decades ago. Reminders of a fondness for Tennyson and for Olivier's Henry V. The files and aides-memoire and pills. Suddenly evoked: hands, voice, tears.
In the mirrors -- there are three -- I see nothing about me that is newly wise; no warning or message appears. Mirror-ish words drift through my thoughts. Under pressure I am a pun factory; I seize at words. I am reflecting on her life. I should frame it this way, or that.
When I settle a bit I can see that there is something else there, between the mirrors' cloudy images and mahogany, and I hope it is what lies ahead: light.
*Thank you to Colin Dickey for his recent story "Behind the Draped Mirror" at hazlitt.net, which got me thinking.