Mark Cunningham

Second Story

Mirror

             You see the vase on the table, then the table’s right foreleg, then the shadow of its left back leg:  you catch one thing, but miss all others.  Glance at the mirror, recall how in a movie somebody passes through a mirror that is really water, and--what was that flash?  Have a memory, and you miss the present.  Have another, and you miss another present.  Soon all the presents that were a blank become the past, so your memory is a blank:  nothing, Alzheimer’s.

            And right now’s now?  Light reaches you almost without delay.  You watch the wall.  You watch yourself.  But not even the mirror’s reflection is instantaneous.

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