When he got to the frame, he lifted it with both hands and turned it over.
On the back, there was writing. Old pencil, faded almost to nothing. I’d seen it before, but I’d never been able to read it.
Ezoic
Dad held it up to the light.
“L.M. — from Mama — 1952,” he read.
“What does that mean?”
“Your grandmother’s maiden name was Moretti. Lena Moretti.” He touched the writing. “Her mother gave her this mirror on her wedding day. My grandmother. She bought it from a furniture maker in the old neighborhood. Paid it off a quarter a week for two years.”
I didn’t know that. In all those years, nobody had ever told me that.
“Your grandmother brushed her hair in front of it every morning for sixty years,” Dad said. “She brushed my hair in front of it. And yours.”
Ezoic
He laid the frame very carefully on top of the glass in the box.
