“For when you lift your lashes The mirror softens it’s silver, To adorn your hair with flowers.” “It’s splendid!” And thus she ceased my recitation. I withdrew my eyes from the book and read her instead. She – a serene figure, with eyes gazing at the ceiling, elbows resting on the armchair and fingers intertwined. She sat comfortably. After a moment of tranquillity, she spoke again, “wish I could meet the author” “ Really, you don’t know her? ”, I asked, faking innocence. “I don’t”, she shrugged as if reminding me of her age. I scoffed and stood up from my chair. From the cabin next to her mahogany shelves which preserved her works, I took out a hand mirror, her silver mirror, “then try to know her”, I said while handing out the mirror to her, “try remembering her.” I could feel the confusion in her honey- coloured eyes. She took the mirror and exchanged glances between us. Her face beamed golden as the sun breathed it’s last for the day. Her grey hair looked slightly incandescent. She placed the looking glass on her lap and glared up at me, “at least read me something, will you?” I closed my eyes and sighed. After all, this isn’t new. The sun, that silver mirror, her dementia, my patience. It’s just the verses that change.