The Day The Mirror Fell

Claire and I were sitting in the kitchen when we heard the mirror fall that morning. It never reached the floor but slid from the wall and lodged itself behind the sofa, tilted and breathing, as if the house had changed its mind halfway through. The surface of the mirror didn’t shatter – it remained whole, held there at an awkward angle, reflecting only the narrow strip of the white wall it faced. The black glass beads that had once adorned it were fragmented and lay scattered like tiny jewels on the sofa cushion – never again to be whole. I didn’t know it then but, just like that mirror, my life was about to change forever.

My Dad, already ill by then, was being cared for at home by my sisters. I had been there the night before, finishing my weekend shift beside him. It had been challenging; Dad wasn’t eating or drinking. He was distressed, and we had struggled to secure the medical support he needed in the days after his impromptu and somewhat surprising discharge from hospital. After two half-slept nights, I had left for the comfort of my own bed, knowing that I would return the next day for another shift.

That morning, back in my own kitchen, the sound of the mirror startled us, but it did not seem significant. We looked at it wedged between the wall and sofa and, after trying to move it and finding it jammed, we left it where it had landed. I remember feeling sad at its destruction and wondering what had changed to make it fall after such a long time hanging in one place.

Dad died the next day.

There was no shattering. No great noise to mark the moment he left us. Only an ambulance ride, the quiet saying of goodbyes and a final gathering at his bedside. My sisters, their partners and I sat around him as the soft strains of music from his playlist drifted gently through the room. We talked and shared memories, light fragments of banter circling his resting form, each of us hoping that our nearness and the sound of our familiar voices, might steady him and ease his passing.

When he drew in his last breath and his soul slipped quietly from his body, it was to the tender call of Acker Bilk’s clarinet. His final sigh was almost imperceptible – a small, delicate release – and then, so softly we barely felt the moment of it, he was gone.

Afterwards, the room fell still, the music stopped and, for a moment, nobody moved. Dad's hand was still warm in mine and, as my sisters and their partners moved to comfort each other, I found myself remembering the steadiness of that same hand when I was small – how it had held me up in the water as he taught me to swim or held the back of my bicycle seat as I learned to ride. I remembered the sound of his breath behind me as he ran alongside. He had let go then too, though I hadn’t realised it at the time.

Tonight, I think about that mirror. How it had slipped from its place but had not shattered; how it rested at an angle, reflecting only a narrow strip of stark white wall. It had seemed like nothing at the time, just something to be lifted and set right again. But some things, once shifted, never return to exactly where they were. The mirror remained whole, yet the small black beads lay scattered beyond repair.