I turn on the light
and I am greeted
by a thousand tiny reflections,
each shining their little light back at me.
I close my eyes
and open them again,
certain that once,
I was greeted with a single, solid image,
but I am crestfallen
to behold only a thousand pieces
of my shattered reflection.
I am struck by a realization;
I am now without reflection.
Perhaps I do not exist as I once did?
Maybe, I can now stray from what I was?
That old reflected image,
that was cast back at me
like a curse word
every time I turned this light on.
This could be my chance
to shake off the last bits
of an old disappointment,
escape the judgements
of my sinister self
and find a new place,
a new perspective
in a more polished surface.
Smiling to myself,
I shake my head and laugh,
because I know the idea is ridiculous
and it doesn’t matter
whether I can find some new
and lofty image
in another shiny surface;
someone will still have to clean up
these shards on the floor.
I fetch the broom
and begin to sweep up the pieces
of a broken self,
a broken mind.
The splintered remains of a fragile man.
And as they roll and tumble into the pile,
each piece casts off its own light,
reflecting the light from different angles,
showing different images
and I recognize every one.
Every little shard that casts back
the light towards me,
bears uncanny resemblance
to a moment,
to a memory.
Some triumph, or trauma,
or long awaited sunrise,
or hushed and silent nightfall,
the kind coveted by new lovers.
A loving parent, a sibling’s laughter,
the tears of an accepted marriage vow…
… I bend over
and retrieve a shard from the pile.
It is no longer than my little finger,
sharp and slender
and when I turn its face towards mine,
I am surprised to see only one thing
reflected back at me;
Myself.
My eyes.
My face.
My own being,
but only one, tiny piece of it.
I curse,
as turning the shard over in my hand,
I cut myself along one of its razor edges,
and my blood wells up quickly,
for the cut is deep and clean.
Blood runs down my hand
and drips onto the pile of glass at my feet.
I leave the room for a moment,
returning quickly,
finger bandaged haphazardly
and with glue and tape in hand.
I drop to my knees
and slowly, painstakingly;
I,
piece by piece
and bit by bit
begin to rebuild this broken image.
It takes a long time
and I am cut again,
more than once,
but when it is complete,
I stand back;
and there,
in the light,
is one, single reflection.
An image of me.
It is cracked all over.
A roadmap of broken edges
and distorted planes
where I couldn’t get the pieces
to line up perfectly.
It is smeared with glue
and blood
and in some places
where I had to use tape
to hold in an especially troublesome piece,
It does not reflect at all.
But it catches the light perfectly
and casts back at me
an honest and complete image.
I stand there,
in front of my entirety
for but a moment,
tracing the lines
and the pieces
and how I was put together;
bit by bit.
Then I walk away
and shut off the light.
The image exists no more,
for it was only for that moment,
that instant,
that it held the light.
The moment for reflection has passed
and I leave the room;
ready to live
and be shattered again.
HG – 2016
