Home » Life, Death And The Mystery of the Broken Mirror

My seven-year-old tiptoed into my study, her hands behind her back.

“Please don’t be angry," she sobbed.

“What’s wrong, Susan?"

She showed her hands. I gasped. She held the antique mirror I had given Carol two years before the accident. The mirror was cracked. A thin line curved across the surface, but it was still useable.

“I’m so sorry, daddy, I---“

I scooped her up. Susan clung to me, her tears moistened my cheek. I buried my face in her hair. It smelled like Carol’s. The mirror felt warm against my back.

Carol was the perfect wife. Our marriage had been mystical. But her death in an auto wreck had devastated me, enraged me, changed me into a person I didn't like.

After her funeral, I had entered Carol’s dressing room. Her makeup, tooth brush, the mirror—so intimate—like body parts. Strands of hair clung to her brush. I inhaled the scent of her perfume. I exited without touching anything.

The mirror was Carol’s favorite gift, something wooden for our fifth anniversary. Carved on the ebony back were two doves on a branch beneath a full moon. The birds and moon were inlayed ivory.

She had touched the carvings. “Our family," she had whispered. Her voice had been velvet, her tears were streams of silver light.

Carol’s death had distanced me from my daughter. I looked at Susan and saw Carol. I was angry that my wife had hurt me so, had left before our dreams were realized. I didn’t want to be hurt again, didn’t ever again want to fall so deeply in love with a human being, so I had built an emotional shield between Susan and me.

That night, my daughter dissolved all barriers. She clung warm and needy against my chest, desperately. She wept for several minutes. It was insane to deny this child my unconditional love. Finally, Susan looked up, “Mommy is still here."

“Of course, Susan, look in the mirror—those eyes, hair, perfect lips. You even smell like mommy. She’s here when I look at you."

“No, daddy," Susan said, “mommy is really here.  She speaks to me. She told me to get the mirror."

A child's imagination does strange things. I squeezed her and wept.

“I’ll put the mirror back in mommy’s room."

“No, sweetheart, it’s yours to keep forever."

“I have the perfect place for it."

She kissed me, slipped from my lap and left the room.

 

I leaned back and closed my eyes. An enormous weight had risen from my soul. I had forgiven Carol for dying and allowed my daughter back into my heart.

A few seconds later, I felt Susan's gentle hands brush away my tears. I smiled and opened my eyes.

But, no one was there.

 

 

Marty RicKard Bio

Marty RicKard attended William Penn College , Iowa State University and University of Southern Mississippi , from which he holds a BS degree in journalism and photojournalism. He also has a Masters Degree in photography, in addition to the Craftsman, CPP, and A-ASP degrees. Marty spent two years as a technical writer for White Motor Company, and has worked for the Charles City Press, Mason City Globe-Gazette, and Davenport Times-Democrat. He was owner of the weekly New Sharon Star, where he was twice named Iowa Master Columnist for his article, which was syndicated in twenty Iowa newspapers. For more than a decade Marty’s regular column appeared in the Professional Photographer magazine. He has been published in many other magazines and newspapers, including Writer’s Digest, Writer Advice, Golf Digest, Resource Magazine, Picture, Range Finder, and Darkroom. In addition to his writing credits, Marty has won numerous photography awards, has lectured in 48 states, and has traveled internationally as lecturer, and judge. He was one of thirty from the U.S. to participate in the first cultural exchange with China in 1986. He currently is a regular columnist for Lens Magazine, and a full-time writer of fiction and poetry. He is the author of two poetry books and one volume of short stories. He is an entertaining speaker.