By Karishma Krishnan
Dappled sunlight falls across my lap through the tinted windows, illuminating wrinkled hands that are a horrifying caricature of my twenty-year-old ones. But they’re connected to my body; the fingers move when I will them. A withered lady with grey hair stares at me in the window’s reflection, her rheumy eyes scrutinizing my features.
“Time for medicines, Mom,” a woman says, walking towards me. The onslaught of memories is disorienting: little fingers, heart-warming coos, pitter-patter of tiny feet, schools, graduations, and a wedding. Then everything becomes murky, thoughts scurry away, and all that remains is the reflection of the silver-haired lady.
Skilled writing.
Thank you!
Gorgeous!
Thank you!
Hello Karishma,
Interesting story which reminds me of one I read years ago. Whenever the woman was looking through the window in the door to her room, her neighbor, an old, sad-eyed lady living in the next apartment was always smiling back at her. Sadly, the woman did not realize she was looking at her reflection in a mirror hung on the wall of her own room.
Oh, sounds interesting! Will look it up. Thank you.
This is a real story that happened in my house. A man was smiling at his own reflection in the mirror when it got dark and asking my father why he does not introduce that person to him. I have published this article more than 20 years ago in the newspaper and then in my book, “Laughing Stock”
Very well written.
Thank you!
You beautifully captured how our hands say so much about us.
Thank you!
Very poignant. Great story!
Thank you!
We live and we die. Poignant.
Thank you!
Our story. Each one of us will see it one day. Thank you, well done.
Thank you!