Where am I?

The Loss of Self

I have lost myself.  I am invisible. I don't know where I am. 

I can see an elderly woman in my house. She uses my bathroom, and sleeps in my bed. I have no idea who she is.

I try to find myself when she is in the bathroom. I look in the mirror. The bathroom mirror is/was always my favourite. 

I am not there, not in the mirror. My mother is there. But she can't be can she? She died 30 years ago and yet there she is.

The woman dresses in my clothes then goes slowly, ever so slowly, downstairs clinging to the banister. In the kitchen she puts on the kettle to make a cup of tea. As she reaches up to take a cup out of the cupboard, I notice her hand.  It is wrinkled and blue veins tell me that she is indeed very old. She makes the tea and takes it into the garden. She stops by the back door where she locates a walking stick. She carefully, oh, so carefully with the help of the stick,  mounts the three steps which take her to my favourite seat.

I think, "You can't sit there. That's my seat. I like it because I can see all of the garden from there." 

Back in the house I watch her eat my food. Throughout the day she moves about my house, reading, watching TV, and writing. She even went in my studio and added a few strokes to the painting that I have been trying to finish since Xmas.

Where, oh, where am I? I am invisible. Am I looking down from above? At the end of the day she, the elderly woman climbs the stairs, undresses and climbs into my bed. I try to find myself again in the big mirror above the dressing table. I am not there. My sister is there. She is often there. How can that be? She died before my mother.

So where am I? And who is this elderly woman who is living in my house?