Kelli Trapnell

The Mirror

She fingers the chain on which it hangs
about her neck whenever she’s
Got her hands empty.

Click, snap, click, snap, all through the day.
She opens and shuts her locket
As she waits for him to come home.

It’s been nearly a year. She knows their story
Seems unremarkable at best. There have been others,
just like them, that carried the weight for longer.

But to her it is an eternity. Every day passes with
A renewed fear. Fear of the TV, of the phone, of the mailbox.
In her heart she hears the click and snap…

it scares her… that he may die.

It’s been nearly a year. She knows their story.
She’ll wait by the door, always on the edge of her seat,
ready to snap to attention when she hears the lock click.

She’ll wait, alright. She’ll wait for years. And finally,
once she’s had their baby, she’ll hear from some officer:
He was a good man. And she’ll break.

She knows their story. Knows it by heart. She knew it all along.
Yet she still waits, snapping and clicking her locket.
He smiles at her the way he did before he left.

She can’t help herself. She sheds one tear, bittersweet and silver.
It plinks against the open locket, blurring the empty side.
Click, snap, click, snap.

It’s been nearly a year. He won’t come home.
She walks over to the mirror in the empty entryway,
fingering the locket.

She looks up at the mirror. Silent tears streak down her face.
Click. The door creaks open. He smiles at her the way he did before he left.
Her heart jumps and she smiles. She knew it all along.