It's Still Life

A Six Sentence Story

After the Funeral

After the funeral, after everyone returned to their version of living, we covered the mirrors with black cloth, draped like shawls, like leftover fabric scraps, anything to keep the glass from looking back at us.

Sometimes a corner would slip loose, and the mirror would peek through — forbidden and sharp, like finding your Yule gift in the back of the cupboard, or hearing a far-off accent that reminds you the Cold War never really ended.

Dad’s sister died a few months after JFK; we covered the mirrors for weeks then — the whole country felt like a shrouded mirror, dark and watchful, flags hanging at half-mast.

Not for my aunt, of course, no one outside our family knew her, and many refused to admit she was family (that’s what happens when you see the world differently than others).

As a child, I used to wonder why we covered mirrors — maybe ghosts watched from the other side; maybe the dead just needed a little time before leaving.

When Dad died decades later, I couldn’t bring myself to fling the cloth over the glass — in my mind, he came back every time I thought of him… or spoke to him.

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “accent”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.