The porch sagged slightly in the middle, and her kitchen always smelled of cinnamon and fresh coffee.
Every summer, from the time I was five until I was fourteen, I spent two weeks with her.
Her antique mirror hung above the dresser in her bedroom.
It was tall and oval, surrounded by a beautiful walnut frame with carved roses.
The glass was old and slightly wavy.
Whenever I stood in front of it, my reflection looked as though it were underwater.
Every morning, I’d brush my hair in that mirror.
And almost every morning, Grandma Lena would eventually take the brush from my hand.
“Easy, Nicky,” she’d say. “Your hair hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Then she’d brush it herself.
Slowly.
Gently.
One hundred strokes.
She counted each one aloud.
I used to watch her face reflected behind mine and feel completely safe.
When my mother died the year I turned fifteen, I spent most of that summer at Grandma Lena’s house.
