![]() Children look at their reflection to see who they are. People often think that looking in the mirror is about narcissism. But, for me, it was always about feeling. ![]() The question started to come up from Tony as to whether I was using this ability to my advantage. We were in the middle of the Irish countryside, in County Galway, in the West of Ireland, and we didn’t see many other kids. We were forced to be together because we were really quite alone. My brother Tony and I were never very close, neither as children nor as adults, but I was tightly bound to him. Standing between the doors, I loved to look at her possessions, the mirrors reflecting me into infinity. ![]() Pinned to the burlap was a collage of things she’d collected: pictures she’d torn out of magazines, poems, pomander balls, a fox’s tail tied with a red ribbon, a brooch I’d bought her from Woolworth’s that spelled “Mother” in malachite, a photograph of Siobhán McKenna as St. The built-in wardrobe had a mirror on the interior of both doors and a bureau inside, higher than I was, with an array of perfume bottles and small objects on the surface and a wall of burlap stretched above it. There was a shrine in my mother’s bedroom when I was growing up. ![]()
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