Each morning, I see my blurry face in the shaving mirror that you left suction-cupped to my shower wall. It's the first reminder of the day: How unrecognizable I've become. I wipe away the steam and water droplets, exposing a calcified crust on the once reflective surface. I scratch the words 'I miss you' into the limescale patina and pretend you're away. Not dead. Away. But condensation soon obliterates the note you'll never see, and I disappear with it behind the fog. This mirror of yours reveals by obscuring. You're not just away, love. And I am but a ghost.
First Place, Fall Contest 2023. In her winning piece, Pamela captured her experience of grief in a small daily routine, revealing a lifetime of deep love and now great loss. Deft word choices, specific details, and the metaphor of the mirror and blurred images created a layered scene. The lyrical ending was powerfully resonant and stayed with me a long time.—Fall Contest Judge Karen Zey
Pam Moss is a writer and clinical research consultant based in Cincinnati. In her spare time, she studies the mysteries of the universe, life, love and consciousness with her part-Lab lab partner, Molly (who, quite honestly, doesn’t contribute much to the discussion and sometimes eats their homework).