Mirrors

I live so deeply in my life rhythm that I have begun to develop muscle memory.

This dent in the curb is where I jump onto the sidewalk after avoiding the ubiquitous dog poop.

This is where I duck to avoid the not-so-carefully trimmed bushes that slowly creep over the walls and into my path.

This is where I turn my head and make eye contact with the bald man who works in the mirror shop.
Every Monday and Wednesday, I walk up the hill towards the prematurely setting sun, squinting my eyes and hearing my feet clap solidly, rhythmically with the stone sidewalks.
I duck under overhung bushes here, too. The Jerusalem stone apartments on my left end, and I reach a small store.
In the beginning, I turned my head to look at the seemingly precariously hung full-length mirrors that adorned the storefront. Now, my neck knows as the green fence ends that it must turn my head to the left. Mirror, door, mirror. My eyes dart twice. From my own eyes, reflected in the glass, to the eyes of the bald man, back to my own eyes. And then forward again. Every Monday and Wednesday for three months I have made eye contact with the man who hangs these mirrors.

I have had no other interaction with him other than our twice-weekly glance. Does he wonder who I am, too? Or does my face, often flushed from the cold, blur in with the school girls, the dog walkers, the yeshiva boys, the tired mothers, the hurried fathers…

I walk through the streets, absorbed in the rhythm of my steps synched with the beat of my music and I notice, only vaguely, the people who pass me; eyes peaking out over scarves, or staring ahead, intent but unfocused, leave only a small impression in my brain. But I’m starting to recognize, now. Six minutes away from school, the man on his bike weaves to the right to avoid me. Five minutes away, the girl with the shiny black hair looks up at me from her phone. Four minutes away, three, two…I arrive at a place I recognize. Eye contact here leads to conversation. There are smiles here, too.

Every brief connection I have with a person adds a small pebble onto the pile of memories that shape who I am. As I pass the mirrors, I have a tiny moment’s glance of how I appear to the people whose eyes I meet. They are all mirrors to me now. I am conscious of my body, my posture, my pace, and their eyes reflect my own expression. Hidden interest. We’ll keep walking. Every day I’ll pass them in the street.

It is odd to me that my daily rhythm, which stays the same, changes me with every step.