Perfectly clear.
For the first time in my life, my reflection didn’t appear distorted.
I saw myself exactly as I was.
Thirty-seven years old.
Hair tied in a messy bun.
Paint stains on my sweatshirt.
Tears running down my cheeks.
Dad reached into his jacket pocket.
“Abe saved something for you.”
He unfolded a handkerchief.
Inside was a piece of the original mirror glass, about the size of my palm.
Its edges had been smoothed.
When I held it toward the light, my reflection appeared wavy and familiar.
On the back was a small label.
L.M. — 1952.
I held the fragment carefully.
A little piece of Grandma Lena.
A little piece of my childhood.
Something Brian hadn’t managed to destroy completely.
Dad helped me hang the restored mirror in its old place.
Above the same section of wall.
On the same nail.
He held the frame while I stood back and directed him.
