In my bag is a small square mirror with an orange cloth border. I use it from time to time. It is a convenient size and readily portable.

My mother possessed it for many years, yet when I look upon it’s surface no remnants of her image remains.

There is only my own reflection to gaze upon.

The handwriting of my mother is familiar and unmistakable. I have seen it all my life on letters, cards, notes, and shopping lists, only recently showing a less fluid stroke of her hand.

I remove the calendar from the wall. It is marked with important dates, like all her calendars marked before. Things to do are circled in blue, family birthdays and visits have hearts in red ink. On a date, in two days’ time, my name lies within a heart of red.

I spend hours combing through copies of the papers she wrote and shared over the years. I sift through pages and pages of her exuberant encouragement, her unwavering support, and her advice to us, her family, for leading healthy, happy lives. The output seemed to be endless, until now.

I leaf through her phonebooks eyeing names, very few I do not recognize. Numerous small bounded books, some with pressed flowers and photographs, contain her poems and short stories. All of these, even the phonebooks, begin with inscriptions to us, her children and grandchildren.

These are the papers of a woman, my mother, who lived gracefully, completely, and enthusiastically, who loved unconditionally and selflessly, who was loved and will be missed profoundly.

The papers do not reflect my mother’s smile, echo her voice and laughter, or offer her warm embrace. But they offer a whisper of her presence here by my side.