Reflections in a Burning Mirror

Perhaps my fear began with burning sunflowers – the first time I recognized my sheer powerlessness against the brutal steamroller of time. At five-years-old, I knew that the past was permanent, but I was still so foolishly obsessed with the idea of controlling the future. 

On a Sunday night in the middle of summer, young Sophie woke to the sound of faint crackling and shuffling footsteps. Groggy and bleary-eyed, she sat up in her pink, flower-patterned twin bed and turned on the lamp beside her. She could tell by the shifting shadows of car headlights peaking through the cracks in her blinds that it was the middle of the night. Her grandma, Mimi, swiftly flung open the door, scooped her in her arms, and rushed outside in what felt like mere seconds. From the comfort of Mimi's arms, five-year-old Sophie watched as the towering sunflowers in her family's garden glowed orange and red from all-engulfing flames. She had never seen a fire so big before, and, as the traces of heat and smoke met her face, it dawned on her that maybe the world didn't always make sense. 

She had watched those flowers grow patiently, sitting outside nearly every day to observe them bathe in the light, her beautiful miniature suns. Over Mimi's shoulder, she stared in horror as her prized flowers, once taller than her, charred and collapsed in anguish. Her mom never replanted them after that; it was the last time she saw sunflowers like those again. 

I was seven the next time I remembered feeling the same warm rays that those sunflowers used to emit. I loved studying sunlight as it pooled on the wooden floor next to the window in the kitchen, illuminating it. I still crave the quiet hum of early Saturdays, when the house was still waking up. I haven't stopped looking for it every morning, that glow of the mesmerizing early sun, even though I know I won’t find it. It's not the light I crave, it's the light ten years ago, shining onto the familiar floor that I long for. 

At seven-years-old, Sophie walked downstairs, treading with caution. The carpet beneath her feet softened her steps, but that was exactly how she liked it. Sometimes, she enjoyed sitting on the stairs and watching her family like an invisible observer. It always seemed to scare them, how much she silently noticed and remembered. 

From the stairs, she watched as her mom and grandma were making French toast together, talking gently over the quiet sizzle of the pan. French toast was her mom's favorite breakfast, so consequently it was Sophie's too. Tuning into the muffled chatter, she heard her mom complain about the house's failures and flaws. It was over a hundred years old with minimal renovation, seemingly falling apart. The peaceful morning warmth that, only moments ago, painted a smile on her face, began to drain as she kept listening. An aching sadness washed over her in silence; she worried how much time was left before her life changed and memories became less familiar. 

That was the moment her ritual began. 

She started replaying her favorite memories and observations in her mind every night before bed, truly hoping that she would never forget. 

And I didn't forget. I still remember the exact chime of the church bells from down the street, counting each fading ring on my fingers to calculate the time. I still see the bulbous, pale-blue water tower in the distance, stealing glances at it through the fragmented rainbow light of the outdoor sprinklers. I still feel the vibrational beat of my grandma's rocking chair swaying on our porch, sending calming waves to soothe my racing mind. 

Sophie, and her siblings, Eli and Caroline, packed the rest of their clothes into the trunk of their mom's beige Nissan Pathfinder. The Millers were moving a couple of minutes away to stay with their Dad's mom, BB, while the house was fixed. Sophie loved BB's house, it reminded her of toast cut in half, carefully spread with butter and jelly, and the warm embrace of a towel fresh out of the dryer. She used to sleep over there sometimes, but she was never there long enough to keep track of all the little details.

 She was eight when they moved out of the house, and she was old enough to know that they were getting rid of every precious corner and crevice. While she was drinking a cup of Irish breakfast tea, which she only enjoyed when it was drowned in honey, or doing homework at the dining room table, she was powerless as her home inched closer and closer to becoming something she would no longer recognize. 

"Home is wherever your family is," her mom said in an attempt to console her one night. Although Sophie knew that she was right, she sobbed even harder, pressing her changing, growing face into the fat, pink pillow on the bed that she shared with her sister. She wanted desperately to go home, to sit with Mimi while she rocked and rocked and rocked in her sturdy porch chair. But Mimi was in Chicago with her uncle, on the precipice of moving into a nursing home, and the walls she used to run her hands along were now replaced by empty space and dust motes suspended in air. 

The day we moved back home, I couldn't seem to find the right words to say. Surrounded by shiny white countertops and freshly painted white walls, the guilt of missing the old house ate away at me. Only a year had passed, but nothing was the same anymore. I was much taller, and my body didn't feel like mine anymore. I was standing in the skin of a stranger, in the house of a stranger. Mimi's Alzheimer's had gotten worse, and she saw me as a stranger, too. 

All that time I spent memorizing details seemed in vain. I was so afraid of forgetting the things that mattered to me, like Mimi did, but in the end it was still gone. What was the point of observing and why was I so obsessed with it? 

Sophie was sixteen when she began observing again like she once did. Although the house became familiar quickly, she never observed things the same way again. Perhaps it was the stinging sharpness of growing older or the simple fact that she no longer had the time to scan her environment detail by detail. Either way, she propped herself up on the stairs and studied the bones of her home, stripping away the paint and wallpaper until she could see what it once was. She heard Eli and Caroline's tiny feet bolting up the stairs and pictured her favorite painting that hung in the living room. The carpet was different now, but the hallways were the same, only now from a higher point of view. The same stained glass from the old dining room was now in the kitchen, yet the light still made it bleed the same colors.