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.
