Jim: memoir of a mirror

Jim, 78, looking for something, stops, does not remember what he wanted.

Nailed he stands in front of the mirror, big battlemented mirror, wasted

by images: it could fit a sunset over Sedona – the town where he haunted

all life, whose streets he easily draws in his impaired memory. Painted

 

bunting of Sedona’s red rock filling the mirror, and the memory maybe.

But not many other things left. Trying to reach his eyes in the herby

mirror, Jim lifts the head: that’s a real adventure. His memory is a booby

hatch, still Mr. Parkinson plays the role of a reluctant hero or of a zombie,

 

as he climbed on Jim’s back years ago and wouldn’t change position.

Two minutes later, Jim finally reaches his own eyes. With some caution,

Jim smiles to himself: happy to see a familiar face? There is a tension.

Whose eyes are these, he might have asked. A name had come from ocean

 

of names. Nailed he stands there, eye in eye, lingering upon those tremendous blue eyes. Tears would come out, if available. Did the old guy feel the anxious

second? Time had no meaning anymore, the meaning ends in the judas

hole through which you could spy Death, and have an illustrating preface

 

of what shall come. Still, Jim couldn’t even tell day from night, the lights on

all the time and the curtains covering the windows or perhaps, jittery python,

the helplessness: the loneliness, the illness, the sadness… How far is Tucson?

Jim notices the picture in a corner of the mirror – with his daughter thereon.

 

At the crest of the sight, some words Jim hears, spoken by a little lady,

jumping from the embalmed memory, her daughter when a kid: – Howdy!

Why did you leave the mirror when you moved? You made it prettier, Daddy.

Jim’s eyes divorce its look and close. That had been all – eye candy.

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