Creative Writing

The Mirror

As I study the face I see before me,
Old but with wisdom in those lines,
The wrinkles tell a story of who they were,
When they laughed, and when they cried.

I look at the woman quietly sitting there,
Her hair so short, fragile, and grey,
Quite a contrast to the fiery red locks I had,
That I walked proudly with each day.

The sapphire of her eyes looks tired,
Sad almost, but why?
I’ve been told her family visited today,
Though I’ve forgotten their names and the time.

That smile though, oh that beautiful smile,
Has also faded and gone away.
Those pearlescent white teeth that could light up a room,
Hidden by the depression in the uncertainty of each day.

Though the necklace she wears is familiar,
A golden padlock and delicate chain.
My husband gave me one oh so similar,
As to remind me of our wedding day.

Yet I look at the woman before me,
Forgetting what I was going to say.
The story of who I am and what I loved,
Gone for another day.

Now I’m left simply looking at a mirror,
Barely recognisable to myself,
That woman is me, that face is mine,
But the memories and life has drained out.

I hope I make another appearance tomorrow,
I wish that this time I could stay,
But dementia is a gatekeeper,
Who pushes me and my memories away.

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About Author

Ella Weeks-Pearson

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January 2022
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