I Still Feel Very Sad Sometimes

I sat by the piano, picking out notes to a melody Mummy used to play years ago. The melody of a song that she used to sing to, dance to.

"Luna!" she says, behind me. I can hear the laughter in her voice like used to.

"Mummy!" I exclaim, twisting on the piano stool.

But she isn't there.

This isn't the first time that I've felt my memories merge with reality. I turn back to the piano, tears already stinging the corners of my eyes. It's a beautiful thing, really. It's a grand piano, made of black wood - ebony I think - and polished to perfection.

Or at least it used to be.

Before she went.

I wipe my finger across the body of the piano, leaving a shiny trail. I can see myself staring glumly back at me.

BANG!

I slam the lid of the piano shut and walk away from it, like it's something I fear. In a way I do. I fear the memories.

I walk out into the hall, hands in my pockets. I see the mirror in the hallway.

Her mirror.

Mummy used to use the mirror to do her make up in if she was in a real hurry. She always preferred Muggle cosmetics. She had a small box of stuff under the mirror. All her second best stuff is still in there, she kept the best in her dresser upstairs. Daddy didn't have the heart to throw it away.

I open the small box under the mirror and take out a crimson lipstick. I hesitate, unsure whether to use it...but then I think better. Mummy always taught me not to steal. I put the lid back on the lipstick and take out the perfume. I squirt it into the air and inhale it deeply.

She always smelled lovely - like the most beautiful, most perfect flower you've ever seen.

I put it back and close the box.

I look into the mirror - simply standing and staring. Daddy always tells me how much I look like her. We have the same long blond hair, the same deep blue eyes, our eyebrows arch the same way. Our mouths have the same shape, our hands the same character, our nose the same length.

Sometimes, Daddy finds it very hard to look at me.

He says it still brings back some very hard memories.

Sometimes I find it hard to look at myself too.

I stare even more intently at the mirror, ignoring the tears that are now pouring down my face freely. I stare despite the fact I want to tear my gaze away and run up to my room and cry.

I stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare and stare.

The tiniest wrinkles imaginable collect at the edge of my eyes. My face looks older, more mature. There's something in my eyes that can only be described as a mothers love, the look a mother gives to her daughter when she's done something wonderful.

The look my mother gave me.

I blink very slowly and look again.

Mummy looks back at me.

I breathe her name and touch the glass, wanting to fall through, to join her where ever she is.

My hand makes contact with the smooth, cool glass and as soon as it does I see myself, staring into the mirror. My red rimmed eyes say it all.

I stand back from the mirror and collapse against the floor, crying - no, howling for the loss of my mother.

Sometimes, when I'm left alone I think about my mother.

I still feel very sad about it sometimes.