But there was still one thing I couldn’t restore.
Grandma Lena’s mirror.
At least, that’s what I believed.
Dad found an antique furniture restorer named Abe in a town about an hour away.
Abe worked from a converted barn filled with woodworking tools, sawdust, and old furniture waiting for repairs.
Dad personally drove the box containing the broken mirror to his workshop.
A week later, Abe called.
“I can save most of the frame,” he told me.
My heart lifted.
“The corner can be rebuilt. I can match the walnut. Even the chipped rose can have a new petal.”
“And the glass?”
There was a pause.
“I’m afraid the original glass can’t be restored.”
I closed my eyes.
It was antique glass with an old, slightly distorted reflective surface.
Abe could replace it with modern mirror glass.
But it wouldn’t look the same.
“It won’t be wavy?” I asked.
