by M. N. Miller

Created on: May 06, 2008

GENUINE ARTICLE

At those moments that I feel so completely like my Self, wholly genuine and without affectation, I want to run to the mirror to catch a glimpse of what I truly look like. I have never made it there in time. The eyes blinking back at me are the same hazel eyes above the same nose and the same thin lips. Same bit of gray hair peeking out from my part. I'll lean in so my nose is almost touching the mirror, searching the curves and pores of my face to see if I can recognize anything in the flesh that I felt the moment before. The haze that covers the mirror from my breath does not lend a bit of mystery, a sense of fairy tale, but only serves to shroud and hide me more completely. The moment is gone and I walk away withouta glance overmy shoulder at my reflection.

It happens that in the course of a conversation with a friend, my Father oreven a stranger, something comes out of my mouth that seems unattached from the normal strings that accompany my thoughts. It doesn't dangle and prance like a puppet in the air to delight and entertain. Itis suspendedregally, completely poised before it wraps itself around me like mist witha heady scent of freshness, then disappearing back inside of me as I inhale. I imagine myself transformed in thatveil ofpure and simple thought. I turn to the shop window, glance in the rear view mirror hoping to meet the strong woman that for a moment existed.

It's the feeling that overcomes me that I enjoy most. The first time I felt it ooze over me like rich chocolate sauce on a sundae, I was at my parent's house for Christmas. I didn't want to be there. Their separation was still so new and raw that to come together in a show of familial celebration only aggravated the open sore. Surrounded by gaudily wrapped gifts, forced chatter and plastered smiles I heard myself respond to my mother who was searching for praise for her newest and greatest culinary feat, "No. I do not particularly care for the brie with cranberries." Innocuous, my statement. You would think it would barely render a blip on the radar, but all time paused for a brief moment, the Oh of Perry Como's Oh Holy Night punctuating the silence, as eyes all turned to me. My sister, panicked; my father, alert; my mother, at once hurt and then angry. "I prefer the cut pepperoni and Triscuits." Perry Como rescued us with his spiritual refrain. The rising voice was enough of a distraction, the spirit displacing my words, pushing themup through the roof and out of our way.

• 1
• 2
• Next Page >>