“No, honey.”
I sat quietly.
Then I said, “That’s okay. Please put in the new glass.”
Abe kept the mirror for nearly two months.
Dad called him regularly to ask about the progress.
Then, on a Sunday afternoon in December, I heard my father’s old truck pull into the driveway.
When I looked outside, he was lifting something large and flat from the truck bed.
It was wrapped in moving blankets.
He carried it into the living room and leaned it carefully against the couch.
“Go ahead,” he said.
I knelt and removed the blankets.
And there it was.
Grandma Lena’s mirror.
The walnut frame had been restored.
The damaged corner was smooth.
The carved wooden roses were beautiful again.
The repaired petal was a slightly lighter shade than the others, but I had to look closely to notice.
And inside the frame was new glass.
Clear.
