When hers is the only image in the water’s surface, she lets herself cry. She’s alone with a marble tomb. No whisper of sound or life. Nights of silence highlighted by ribbons of light and raindrop tears falling on a reflection are wrapped in regret and grief.
Like a tempest trapped in an orb she exists. Caged in walls of glass. Her child trapped in earth. Hers is the life of a mirror. Separate from everything but sight. Her heart lies at her feet.
She is reflected back at herself and no one else can see. In no other eyes does she shine. No child wanders past. There are none to look in at her. Their loss is that of her idiosyncrasy. She is a lone hue, reflected in dark voids of color. Like a broken crow’s wing. She is a rippling image. A flash of life in death.
Deep beneath the surface she’s drowning. Glass bubbles shatter the surface, pulsing with lighting. Tolling clocks chime her death. She sinks. The depths of hidden loneliness pull her down. Until she’s the girl in the mirror, trapped in glass. Apart from even her ghost.
And she pounds the silver surface. It refuses to break. Her baby’s grave is inches away, behind a glass mirror wall. She sinks to the floor. Crouching in her silent misery. Its complete quietude is her loss of feeling. She stares out through the mirror at infinity. It is a destructive fate. Immortality in glass or mortality in stone.