In a dark mirror

I walked through the house like a wraith. I barely noticed the furniture covered in stained and worn movers’ tarps. Framed oil paintings on the floor leaned against the wall in haphazard order. Bright squares spotlighted where they once hung. The surrounding faded paint showed more than age and neglect.

Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the oriel window. Standing in the dull shadows, I shivered, but not from the cold.

There is one mirror in my house. Keeping with tradition, I covered the glass to spare wandering souls from being trapped in this world. Drapped in my grandmother’s Irish lace shawl, I could discern a blurred reflection behind the tatting.

With trepidation, I gingerly lifted one corner until I saw my face in the surface of the glass. Peering deeper into the reflection, I saw a woman standing behind me, looking out the dining room window.

Turning slowly, I realized too late that I’m on the wrong side of the mirror. I was truly the wraith.