For the Most Part

By Mary Borkowski

Lately, I have begun to miss mirrors again. There are only three in my house and they are all unflattering, chopping the body up at odd angles, only show the upper half or the lower half, or a strange floating middle, but never the whole. I forget that things take practice, like looking in the mirror. And I don’t have the patience to befriend my own mirrors. I miss going to restaurants, galleries, and cafes. I’d inevitably use the bathroom and be struck by the mirror it provided, sometimes just a reflection in a paper towel dispenser, but often large, sturdy mirrors, set at interesting angles, that let me see a slightly different version of myself all the time. This was comforting.

Often I sit up late at night wondering if I’m a bitch. I brush my teeth with charcoal. When people say, “you look nice,” they usually just mean you look different. My desk is covered in cup rings, its beautiful wood marred. At night, I always end up going to sleep though, you know. Otherwise there would be trouble.

The problem is I don’t know how to write a happy story, and my hair is everywhere. Strewn around the apartment, glistening on blankets in the sunlight, hanging off my husband’s tall frame as he bends over to lift something up, in the chops of my dog’s mouth as he sits for a treat, and stuck to the back of my work cardigan like a sign that says, “Kick me” over and over and over again.

My hair is orange, sometimes blonde. It is not real, in that if I chopped off all my hair and it regrew, the color would be a fine stew, like a lentil stew, with some hints of lighter shades. I am average and OK with this, but my hair is everywhere. In the boredom of confinement, I have taken to dyeing my hair frequently, relishing the burn of bleach against my scalp, wondering if this time the chemicals will just destroy everything. Everything will become broken, weak straw.

I vacuum up the mess frequently, but other forms of cleaning evade me. I am a WYSIWYG type of house cleaner; I will wipe off the table but not clean the fingerprints on cupboards. I pick my toenails off one by one as I listen to patients on the phone. I make sure to routinely vacuum these up, along with the many apple stems I leave on chairs and tables.

Everywhere, there are little piles.

But I am happy, see. You don’t believe me? My feet and hair might be in disrepair, but I can still love and be loved. I might bathe in a bath of broken finger nails, but I have a full, rich life. I awake late in the morning, like a true nonconformist, and drink coffee until I decide I am ready to work. I have a beautiful garden and family. Music and laughter rings throughout my home and phone calls. I regret little, because it has all brought me to this point. I eat pancakes several times a week. There is little that I am afraid of during the waking hours. It’s only at night I wonder if people dislike me. Such are the contradictions we all must embrace.

Instead, lately, for the most part, I have to deal with myself as the same person every day. I have to feel the weight of my skin, the way a too heavy meal causes my stomach to itch on the outside, and oil on the inside. How I get tired at the same time every day, how I have to force myself to be curious in new ways. It’s almost like we are never exactly going to go home again. And I have to learn to be OK with that.