I see her. The mirror’s mouth yawns into the past. She’s twirling from the ceiling (no chandelier, all necktie) looking forward like a motivational poster. I touch the gilded edge; reflection becomes a photograph, becomes an invitation, becomes temptation. She runs her swollen tongue over blue lips. She croaks out a word, then cackles. The glass begins to crack. I trace the lines and cut my finger. I repeat the motions twice more. She rocks like a metronome, swaying toward me. Her palms reach out to tap the wall. A bang, a firecracker of a knock, sounds near my head. The shards rattle and tinkle in their positions like ice in bourbon. One more swing and she’ll be free. I see her face through my blood smears, track her flowing dress and waggling tongue, and grab the blessed pendant just out of view. She pauses like a VHS tape, palms inches from the mirror. She careens backward like a wrecking ball, and her wordless shriek sets off my tinnitus better than a gun fired in a vehicle. Her red-lightning eyes bulge with rage and lack of oxygen. Her hands clench into fists. She thrashes like a fish on the line. But I can’t free her. I mouth the words she knows by non-beating heart, the words she’d rip from my vocal cords if ever she is out. Forgive me, Aunt Josephine.
