The Baby in the MIrror

If you have ever visited our apartment in the mortuary you may have noticed the seven foot length mirrors that line the wall facing the living room. We’ve thought about putting wall paper or maybe curtains over the vanity, however, we just can’t get over looking at ourselves. Have you noticed that I have freckles? Thank goodness for seven foot mirrors.

            One person that certainly has noticed is Max. Andrea will always ask Max who the baby in the mirror is? He responds in kind by pointing and repeating ‘mirror’ in his lisped, broken baby language. Max also loves to look through the front door glass, especially at night. The lights of the passing cars are too much to pass up.

            Watching him one night I thought about what a person would think if they happened to pass by and catch this scene.

           

            An innocent stroll down State Street walking back home from the store with a half gallon of milk and the latest edition of Utah County magazine, (they have great recipes by the way) watching the topography of the concrete sidewalk as they pass letting their thoughts take them somewhere else, like how much a glass of milk and an easy read would really top this night off. Suddenly a quiet voice catches their attention. The concrete stops suddenly underneath them as they stop to listen. They hear it again. No cars are passing so the sound is clear. They look to one side, nothing. They peer to other side and the scene is materialized. Shock fills their system as they see a silhouette of a baby looking through a fogged window. The night is chill and the mortuary is dark. The baby in the window is chanting mirror. What do you do? Andrea says they would most likely think someone lives there. Well Andrea, not everyone has grown up as morbidly as you have. Not everyone assumes a mortuary is a normal place where people live, have Christmas parties, and wedding receptions.

            The quiet pedestrian looses the grip on the cold milk and doesn’t feel the magazine fall from their numbed hands. They stare as the child continues its routine. The shock turns to fear, the fear turns to anger and the natural reaction of survival kicks in. They run. They run home with more quickness than they thought they could muster. Home couldn’t come any faster. Their lungs burning from the cold of the darkness. They reach the comfort of their front porch. They fumble for the keys. The door was unlocked after all. The struggle was in vain.  They reach the embrace of loved ones. Collapsing on the floor and feeling the effects of the exercise that they have neglected for so long. They grope for the words that just won’t come.

            At long last they able to relay their message through bated breath while everyone listens in disbelief. After many hours the night settles down and the unfortunate souls heart regains it’s natural rhythm. That night the sound of a child’s voice won’t leave the consciousness of their mind and sleep is unfeasible. And all of this because Max likes the speeding lights and the sound of his own voice. Well at least we have a copy of Utah County magazine. Dinner’s going to be great tonight.