***
At first, I thought a window had broken.
Tiny pieces of glass caught the afternoon sunlight, scattering bright reflections across the hardwood.
Then I stepped closer.
And my knees nearly gave way.
My grandmother’s antique mirror lay shattered across the floor.
“No,” I whispered.
I dropped beside it.
The dark walnut frame had split at one corner.
One of the carved wooden roses was chipped.
The glass had broken into dozens of pieces.
Some fragments were large.
Others were barely bigger than grains of sugar.
They were spread across the room in a wide circle.
Not as though the mirror had simply slipped off its nail.
As though someone had thrown it.
I covered my mouth.
Of everything Brian could have damaged, this was the one thing I couldn’t bear to lose.
My grandmother’s name was Lena.
She lived in a little white farmhouse about an hour from our town.
