Mirrors

Nakeysha Roberts Washington

When I was little, I would watch my Aintie get dressed. The women in my family were always sharp. And my Aintie was no different, she smelled like cocoa butter and hummed deep and strong, something like Shug Avery from The Color Purple. As she put on her makeup, I would be right next to her while she sat in the chair in front of her mirror. I was still only waist tall, and not yet tall enough to see my own reflection, but I could look up and see hers. She would be intensely focused on herself and lean in closely to the mirror to ensure the perfect application of her red lips.

She had a big smile and was loud. Not only when talking, but also singing. Now, my Aintie. Say it with me, my ain’t-tee. Whew, lawd that woman could sang her ass off. I can only say ass and my aintie in the same sentence because I ain’t really saying it. I’m just writing it. My Aintie sung like god sprinkled fairy dust in the air she breathed and gave her rainbow mane unicorn droplets in her morning coffee to sweeten it up. She has a big voice that would make you surrender your souls to Jesus Christ himself. I spent much of my life listening to her sing Luther Vandross. She would put his records on, and once it began to play, she would smile big, close her eyes, throw one hand up, and yell, “Lutha,” right before singing every single word his songs in perfect key. She was a star at her church. They depended on Sister Donna to sing for every occasion. She loved it, and I loved hearing her sing. 

As time went on, she had a lot of sickness. Her daughter lives in Chicago and didn’t come visit frequently. She was too young to realize how sick her momma was and saw our constant requests for her to come home to see her momma as interfering with the life she was trying to build there. I was very worried that my auntie, not having someone there to help her remember to live, would cause her to give up and not fight to get better, so I visited everyday. 

She was in the hospital for months in an induced coma after an intestinal bypass surgery went suckishly wrong. She ended up with a really bad infection that had gotten into her bloodstream and into her brain, and this induced coma was supposed to help her brain stop swelling. 

Everyday, I sat by the right side of her bed. I read out loud the 23rd Psalms, her favorite scripture, while she was hooked up to the machines that were keeping track of her vitals and the IV drips that held the antibiotics and the medicine that kept her in this coma. I sat in the chair pulled up closer than I would have if she were awake, and I let the tears well and then fall. I held her hand and rested my head at her side. If anyone else were there, I would not have allowed myself this type of emotion, but I was almost alone. Alone except for my Aintie, of course.

Every day when I visited, I also sang. I sang, “With the lord as my shepherd, I have absolutely everything I need. He makes me rest in a meadow’s grass and leaves me beside a quiet stream. He restores my failing health...” 

Even an Atheist like me, who only wishes she could believe there is a god, will sing to her Aintie to help remember the world is waiting for her to wake and let the mirror mirror her reflection.