Reflections on an old lady

The old lady in the mirror,  
    looks at me.  
  
Her expression, whilst not grim, doesn't radiate contentment  
(as if happiness were only a brief, all too brief visitor).  She has   
accepted her lot in life  
however unhappy, unfulfilling it has been.  
  
Her once lustrous raven hair  
now reduced to a straggly thinning grey covering  
over her skull.  
  
Her face lined from a lifetime of caring, worrying   
about her children.  Her body wearied from a lifetime   
of caring, worrying about her children.  
  
Nobody knows what she feels.  She doesn't show anything.  
  
But I do - because she's me.   

Originally published as: T. Duong, (2001). Reflections on an old lady. Red Lamp, 9, 15.

Author's note: "I wrote this poem in response to something that my mother said to me quite a while ago now, something that I want the world to know about. As my mother grew up in a third world country, she had an extremely limited education and taking on the duties of a daughter and then (working) mother in a strongly patriarchial society, has left her with few opportunities to tell her story."