As I gaze into the mirror, I am met with a familiar visage—my mother’s face reflected back at me. The sharp jawline, deep-set eyes, and high forehead all echo her features. It’s been 14 years since she passed, and seeing her likeness is both unsettling and comforting, like a ghostly visitation. Growing up, I never perceived myself as resembling her much, but now, at 41, the soft contours of youth have faded, revealing her face beneath.
My new glasses, thick brown tortoiseshell frames, enhance this resemblance. My mother was a lifelong glasses wearer. Although she briefly experimented with contact lenses in her 40s—alongside braces, no less—she quickly returned to glasses, which she believed suited her better. Without them, her eyes appeared slightly too large and her nose a tad too long. I can still picture her, nearsighted and determined, never parting with her frames, even while swimming. I remember watching her bobbing above the waves, her curly red hair pinned elegantly atop her head, gliding through the water with grace.
My mother always had a flair for stylish eyewear. My father would often cringe at how much she spent on glasses, but she would retort, “They’re the one thing you wear all the time, and right in the middle of your face!” With her frequent travels to Europe for work in the fashion industry, she often returned with unique pairs that no one else at home would have, much to her delight. The styles varied widely, from chunky to delicate, square to round, retro to contemporary. As a child, it took me days to acclimate to each new pair. When she passed away from cancer at 56, a young resident handed my brother and me her glasses in a plastic bag, alongside half-used medications and her bedside lip gloss. Seeing her nearly new oval glasses, I was overcome with grief right in the hospital lobby.
I was born when my mother was 30 and remember her most vividly in her 40s, around my current age. She always seemed magical, yet I wonder what she saw in herself through her compact mirror. Her red hair was beginning to gray, and fine lines were starting to etch her face. Did she see a faded version of herself? Did she reflect on the passage of time? “When people say you look tired, Daisy, what they really mean is you look old,” she once confided to me while touching up her makeup.
I often watched her prepare for the day, captivated by her routine of moisturizing, concealing, and plucking. She noticed my gaze one morning and said, “I used to look at my mother the same way, thinking how old and ugly she was, and I couldn’t fathom that I would ever resemble her.” I wanted to tell her that wasn’t my thought at all.
As I navigate life without her, I recall small details I thought I had forgotten—how she curled her lashes to avoid hitting her glasses, how she smoothed her forehead to flatten the lines between her brows. Now, I find myself mimicking those same gestures as my features begin to mirror hers. I wear my new glasses on hectic days to hide the dark circles under my eyes, realizing that she likely did the same. It dawns on me that this is why people preferred her in glasses.
When my children were born, children she never got to meet, I sought her features in their faces. Is Sam’s nose a reflection of hers? Oliver’s hair? And what about Ellie, her namesake, who at 8 already sports her own chic purple frames? She’s in all of them, for sure. Yet when I look in the mirror, it’s my mother’s essence that resonates most powerfully within me—not merely in looks, but in the way I navigate life and nurture my children’s independence and style. Putting on my glasses, I see the world through her eyes, one she missed but continues to inspire.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, the author explores the striking resemblance to her late mother as she ages, uncovering memories of her mother’s distinct style and approach to life. The author notes how her mother’s essence continues to influence her parenting and self-perception, particularly through the lens of motherhood and the challenges of navigating life without her.
Keyphrase: seeing my mother again
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