As I gaze into the mirror, I can’t help but notice my mother’s features looking back at me. The sharp jawline, deep-set eyes, high forehead, and sloping nose are all strikingly familiar. Even though it’s been 14 years since her passing, seeing her likeness is both uncanny and comforting—like a gentle visit from the past. Growing up, I didn’t think I resembled her much, but now, at 41, as the softness of youth fades, it’s clear that her features have become mine.
My new thick, brown tortoiseshell glasses enhance this resemblance. My mother was never without her glasses; they were as much a part of her as her curly red hair. For a short time in her 40s, she experimented with contact lenses, but they didn’t suit her, and she quickly returned to her beloved frames. I remember how she would don them as soon as she woke and took them off only before bed—even swimming with them on. I can still envision her graceful silhouette gliding through the water, her glasses perched atop her nose as she executed a delicate breaststroke.
She always had an eye for fashionable glasses, often returning from her frequent trips to Europe with the latest styles that no one else back home owned. My father would cringe at her spending, but she’d argue, “They’re the one thing you wear all the time, right in the middle of your face!” The designs varied dramatically, from chunky to sleek and retro to modern. As a child, I would take a few days to adjust to each new pair. When she passed away unexpectedly from cancer at the age of 56, a young resident handed my brother and me her glasses in a plastic bag along with her unfinished medications and lip gloss. Just seeing those brown oval frames brought a wave of tears in the hospital lobby.
I was born when she was 30, and my most vivid memories of her are from when she was in her 40s, the age I am now. To me, she was always enchanting, but perhaps her reflection told a different story. As her red hair began to gray and fine lines creased her face, did she see a version of herself that she didn’t recognize? Did she feel the weight of time slipping away? “When people say you look tired, Daisy, what they really mean is you look old,” she once said while touching up her makeup.
In those mornings, I would watch her ritual of getting ready: moisturizing, concealing, and plucking. I absorbed every detail—the elegance of her long fingers and the sharpness of her collarbone. One day, she caught me staring and said, “I used to look at my mother the same way, thinking how old and unattractive she was, never imagining I would look like that.” I wanted to tell her that wasn’t how I felt.
As I navigate life without her, I find memories resurfacing that I thought were lost. I recall how she curled her eyelashes to avoid hitting her lenses and how she smoothed her forehead to erase the lines between her brows. Now, I catch myself doing the same as I see my features morphing into hers. On busy days, I wear my new glasses to hide the dark circles under my eyes, realizing she likely did the same. It’s clear to me now why people preferred her with glasses.
When my children were born—children she never met—I looked for traces of her in their faces. Did Leo inherit her nose? What about Mia’s hair? And then there’s Ellie, my mother’s namesake, who at just 8 already sports her own fashionable purple frames. She’s in all of them. But most profoundly, I see my mother’s legacy within myself—not just in my appearance but in how I approach life and guide my children, nurturing their independence and sense of style. I put on my glasses and see the world she missed.
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Summary
This reflective piece explores the author’s relationship with her late mother, recognizing her likeness and the memories that linger. Through the experience of wearing glasses, the author connects with her mother’s legacy while navigating life and motherhood without her.