My mirror is a stargazer. At night you can find it on my roof, gazing upwards, as though searching for I know not what. What does it see in the lofty depths of the universe? By morning, it has reclaimed its place over my bathroom sink and shows me to myself, a galaxy of one. I have to imagine the contrast is interesting. On the one hand, you have the fullness of the night sky with its million pinpricks, and on the other hand you have my face. In the end, it’s all speculation; my mirror doesn’t like to talk about it. When I ask it, it just gets that faraway look of my reflection blurring and says nothing.
I used to imagine that if you lay a mirror down on the ground with its face to the sky, you could dive into it as though it were a pool and find yourself swimming in a reflected sky. So, flying, really. I would dip and soar and eventually fly out into space and become a star myself. Then my mirror would go out on the roof after I’ve gone to bed and see me twinkling on high.
My mirror is searching for me.