Mirrors and Memory Traps By Cassidy Primm

Lane Pearman CC



Mirrors and Memory Traps

I enter a room, rising into a sphere of suspended mirrors. The room is full of what look like clouds. Clouds with whole galaxies contained within them. Smoky walls veil a somewhat “room” and sparkle. These mirrors are made of water and contain snapshots. I exist at an infinite variation of ages. There are hundreds of moments captured within thousands of days. Days that determine my joy, my growth, my downfall- every significant event, for good or ill. Cautiously approaching one, I touch the center and cause a ripple of illumination to form. It attaches to the tips of my fingers like a sewed-on shadow and gradually engulfs me. I’m inside the sphere. 

                              My mother’s face appears. 
                              She smiles down at me, and I become her moon.

Oxytocin. Baby powder. Only six weeks maternity leave. Older in seconds, I follow her down a path of wet stones with bare feet; I squeeze one of her fingers for stability. A lady I’ve never met snaps pictures while I climb around in overalls, rolled up to the ankles. Much better than the pictures in the lacy dress, I think. I feel safe- so loved. The world is a ball of light. Glancing at my Mom, the sun hits my eyes- seeing only her shape, young and grinning with pride. She’s a pinprick before I finish blinking. Flung back into space, my hand is empty.

There’s another sphere with a cyan hue. I let it swallow me. I want safety and wet stones, but Mom is nowhere in sight. Neither is Dad, so I panic and wail. Two women force me onto a mat. The other children dream. I weep. I’m not tired! I’m not making trouble; there’s a terror, as if I know I’ll lose them one day. Dad appears in the daycare’s doorway. They both work late. Dad’s Carhartt jacket sleeves envelop me- horse manure, sawdust, safe. 

                              Just when I curl my head into them, the moment is over.

Wildly searching for another portal, I’m ripped into a kitchen. My parents' old kitchen- the one they have when I’m in fifth grade. This is the year I get my period. Mom gets a job at our elementary school and follows baby brother to his school. Five years maternity leave before then; maybe that’s why he turned out the way she wanted. Things at home are tense. Dad snapping on midnight shifts. Mom makes dinner, overload. Baby brother screaming. Homework’s due. Oppressive weight. Retreat to the front porch swing. The CD player hummms. I keep it level on my lap. Swinging amongst the fireflies in humidity, a sliver of peace- but not more than minutes. The window reflects my silhouette and mixes with the sunset. Perspective spinning. A rollercoaster, driving through the window’s mirage. 

                              A sticky trap.

The ground gives way to nothing. I swing into the suspension. Floating mirrors and pools that solidify back into the kitchen. I charge to the front door, grasping at the knob. It won’t budge. Why won’t the door open? I can’t get back to the solace outside. I’ve slipped into a mirror within a mirror. Contained. It’s still the year I get a period. My body aches. I’m tense, but I can’t recall why. 

The TV swirls-Courage the Cowardly Dog is the best. Cheeze-Itz after school. The vent blows Mom’s curtains by my calves. Ticklish comforts. The laundry machine purrrrs and radiates. Gain honey blossom. Within moments, swirling matter freezes another frame, and Mom’s there. She watches me. Disapproval and french doors. Walking by as casually as if she were announcing the weather, she says, you better stop eating so many Cheeze-Itz, or people will call you “Miss Piggy.” Sting. This pain is immense. I’ve been bullied for the first time, and it isn’t even at school. I’m at…home. Home… 

                              I replay the icy words, recoiling from the memory and tumbling into starry
                              darkness.
 
I’m climbing through this trap of clouds and spheres and stars and mirrors and pools; I want relief. Hollow, stretching-  searching for an exit from this funhouse. Another whirlpool yanks me into a school bathroom. I’m on my knees, purging. So small, yet so oversized all at once. My math teacher is listening outside the door. At home later, Mom yells- what are you thinking? What will people think of you? They’ll say you’re one of those girls, and that I’M a terrible mother! Dissociating then and now, I slip down the drain into the clouds and pools.

Next mirror: Mom and Dad scream. Through hot tears, I tell them I’m in love with a woman. I’ve developed an opioid addiction, too. Kicked out. No financial support. Somber phone calls. Family tree in flames. I choose love and reap the pain. Unlock Dad’s pistol. 

                              Pull the trigger, it’s over.
A pool containing a highway appears, transporting me to the day I leave. Hot wind. Windows down. Survivor. This isn’t about blame. It’s about preservation of the remnant I am. My intuition guards me. It really always has. Narcissism. Homophobia. Judgement. Conditional love. 

                              A rearview mirror. A bottle in the trashcan.

Warm memories are bittersweet and cramp my heart, but now- it’s only time to drive.

                             Push the pedal. Disappear into dusk.

The room expands exponentially. I’m no longer in a single suspension. There are innumerable spheres with infinite mirrors and pools replicated within them. A figure floats in each one. I shift for a better view but cannot step. Swim- my mind slowly unwinds itself. Legs kicking, I propel into the twinkling clouds and gasses. Twisting through the fog, I see human forms above and below dancing perfectly in time with me. I finally find a door and push through to an adjacent sphere. Inside, the human form mirrors my movements and crystallizes until we are one. I rise into the suspension of mirrors.  Exploring the pools with my eyes, I touch the first mirror I see.

                              My mother’s face appears.
                              She smiles down at me, and I’m a New Moon.



Raised in Tennessee, Cassidy Primm writes about the world as it is and as it could be. After briefly studying at University of Tennessee, she struggled with autoimmune disease and bipolar disorder but is writing again thanks to wonderful care. She is published in The Haiku Shack Magazine. Living in New Orleans, she writes to provoke, encourage, entertain, and honestly portray her surroundings. She enjoys walking by the Mississippi River with her partner and puppy.

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