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A white room and a party going on
and I was standing with some friends
under a large gilt-framed mirror
that tilted slightly forward
over the fireplace.
We were drinking whiskey
and some of us, feeling no pain,
were trying to decide
what precise shade of yellow
the setting sun turned our drinks.
I closed my eyes briefly,
then looked up into the mirror:
a woman in a green dress leaned
against the far wall.
She seemed distracted,
the fingers of one hand
fidgeted with her necklace,
and she was staring into the mirror,
not at me, but past me, into a space
that might be filled by someone
yet to arrive, who at that moment
could be starting the journey
which would lead eventually to her.
Then, suddenly, my friends
said it was time to move on.
This was years ago,
and though I have forgotten
where we went and who we all were,
I still recall that moment of looking up
and seeing the woman stare past me
into a place I could only imagine,
and each time it is with a pang,
as if just then I were stepping
from the depths of the mirror
into that white room, breathless and eager,
only to discover too late
that she is not there.
__________
Mirror by Mark Strand.
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Maybe we all have glimpses like that frozen in a moment of wistful and curious memory. I had one this last weekend. There were over 50,000 of us (we found later) on a Walk for Life down Market Street in San Francisco, so many that when the first ranks of 15-20 across reached Justin Herman Plaza the last ranks had not yet left the Civic Center and all two miles of street inbetween were filled with silent people of all ages and ethnicities, some holding signs: “Abortion Hurts Women,” “Love Them Both–Choose Life,” a hand-drawn fetus in the womb: “please don’t–i’ll be good.”
A few dozen along the sidewalks held their own signs: “Abortion on Demand and Without Apology” and “Life Begins When You Stand up to Christian Fascists.” Some of them yelled at and mocked us as hypocrites. But two young white women, in the worst part of town, captured my heart.
One just quietly sat on the curb, legs crossed, holding that “Abortion on Demand” sign in her lap so we could see it. I wanted to step out of the crowd and go sit down beside her and maybe, after a long time, introduce myself and ask gently, “What is your story?”The other, her blonde hair pinned anyhow to the top of her head, was running alongside us for a block, ducking around people, cursing us out. I can’t forget her either. This issue has hurt her, devastated her. Why else would she be so angry at us, total strangers? What happened? Was it childhood abuse? Was it rape? Was it an abortion? I pray for these two, that they will be safe and comforted and know they are loved.