image

that hangs lopsidedly
above my fireplace
once belonged to my Grandma.

It hung on the wall
of her hallway
just above the bookcase
and the statuette of Jesus
casting his net to the sea.

I wonder if mirrors
held memories
which ones would it
choose to keep:

the casual passing visitor
stopping on their way out
to preen their hair,

or a small child
in Banana Man PJs
laid upside down
feet up the wood chip
reading a novel by Verne,

or my Mother arranging
fresh flowers on the morning
of the wake, her strong eyes
reddened by grief.

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