15 February 2015
As hard as I try, I cannot imagine what my mother may have been like as girl. Here she is maybe five or six years old. We used to love it when she told us stories of her childhood adventures, the horses, the house with the lion sculptures in the park, wild games with her grandfather, running away from her nanny. How many of these were really only tall stories, embellished over time? Does it matter?
This morning I looked into the mirror and yes, she looked back at me again. Some days, I don't mind that much. Today, for an instant, I also saw my old woman self, a mix of myself and my mother and my sister, a strange new woman with a somewhat incredulous look.
I wonder when I will start feeling old. Of course, my body often feels old but only because of the connotations between illness and old age that have settled inside my brain without permission. No, I mean feeling old and resigned about it.
For some years my mother had a thing about haircuts and how they take away years. So she had her hair cut really short and would wear my brother's jeans.
I don't go for any of that but I wonder whether she ever felt old when she looked into the mirror. And what about her mother? My grandmothers. I start to feel dizzy.