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."