The Bag Lady

The Bag Lady
Dorcas Annette Walker

Who the stranger in my mirror staring back at me? She looks pale and wan. It can’t be me. Those pain-dulled eyes ringed with dark circles are not mine. My cheeks are always rosy and my eyes sparkle with life and laughter. And her greasy hair. Horrors! My hair is always combed and neat. I search in vain for my face. Have I totally disappeared? I recognize familiar features, but this stranger looks older than me. Where did I go? This person stinks. I shudder trying to remember just how long it has been since I had a shower. I am shocked to see stains on my pajamas. How did they get there? My finger and toe nails need to be trimmed. How could I have let myself go? I look like one of the homeless people on the street that I used to pity. My body needs a major overhaul. At what point did I give up? When did the simple act of brushing my teeth become too much of a burden to do? I step in the shower and begin scrubbing my body reveling in the feel of warm water as pulsates over tense muscles washing away the signs of neglect. When I am dry I have to sit down so I can catch my breath. I still have to trim my nails, wash my hair, and hopefully get dressed. I won’t stop until I am civilized from head to toe, even if it takes all day. That evening I relax in my recliner feeling like myself. I promise that I will never let myself get like that again.

A week later: I glance in the mirror and see the bag lady again. No! Go away! I hate you! Get out of my life! I turn my head away from the haunting image in my mirror. Despair overwhelms me as I hang onto the sink trying to keep my balance. Pain escalates and I stagger back to bed. It takes all my energy trying to survive in my world of pain. The bag lady will have to wait.