I sat at the foot of the bed for what seemed like an hour. I knew what I’d seen. I didn’t imagine it. My dead wife had been standing there in the reflection of the mirror, smoothing over the wrinkles of her new dress when I’d switched off the light. I saw her. She was smiling, too. It was less than a second. She disappeared with the light. I’d stood there, in shock, staring at the full-length mirror across the room. It had stood in that same corner for over twenty years. It was a gift from her mother, before she had passed. Grace had stood in front of that mirror every day of her life. She’d check her make-up, or her clothes, turning and eyeing herself in rueful detail. This last time she had smiled. She’d been dead for six months, but she smiled.
I’m not a superstitious man. I believe in God. I go to church, pretty much every Sunday. I believe in Heaven and Hell. I know that my wife was saved and that I’ll see her there one day. I just don’t know what to think about seeing her smiling back at me in that mirror. I don’t think I’m any crazier than I was when she was alive. Maybe when you lose it, you’re not aware that you’ve lost it. I don’t know why I saw her, but I know it was real. I sat at the foot of the bed, inches from the spot she’d died, and stared into that glass. She was nowhere to be seen. When I finally left the room, I stood there in the hallway, watching the mirror as I flipped that switch again. She was nowhere to be seen.
I spent that night, and all the next day, in my office. I searched the internet for every connection between mirrors and the afterlife. It was like sifting through sand to find a grain of salt. There were plenty of references. Lots of so-called supernatural phenomena, legends and traditions. A whole lot of dead ends, if you’ll pardon the pun. The most reoccurring theme that matched my experience was one of the oldest traditions about mirrors and death, and I one that I was already aware of. You’re supposed to cover mirrors with a cloth when someone dies, so that their soul won’t become trapped in the home. My family is Scots-Irish. I can remember my grandmother actually doing this when my grandfather passed away in their house. She went through the house and covered every single mirror with sheets. Even before that, she had unplugged the wall clock in the room that he died in. I wish I had understood more about those traditions. The myth says to cover the mirrors for three days after the death, or the spirit might be distracted by the mirror and think themselves alive, and then be trapped in it. The clock was stopped to let the spirit know that time means nothing to them any longer, and to reassure them that they aren’t being “rushed” to the afterlife. I had followed none of those traditions. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, had Grace not died right there in front of her mirror.
It’s been six months since she died. For only one fleeting moment have I seen my Grace in the mirror since she passed. Why hasn’t she shown herself to me? In my grief and depression, you’d think I would be ripe for a haunting. Susceptible, you might say. But no. Just this once. And she’s smiling. What has she got to smile about? All of this fluttered around in my brain as I slipped into unconsciousness, slumped in front of my computer. My dreams held no answers, just more dark hallways leading to the dark glass of the mirror in my room. Her shrieking scream woke me.
Join me next week for the third installment.
God bless Y’all.
Rolling Stones 