“He saved this,” Dad said quietly.
He reached into his jacket pocket and took out something wrapped in a handkerchief. He unfolded it.
It was a piece of the old glass. One piece, about the size of my palm, the edges sanded smooth so it wouldn’t cut. It was wavy and old and a little cloudy, and when I held it up, my eye in it looked like it was swimming.
“Abe thought you might want to keep a piece,” Dad said.
I held it in my hand for a long time.
Then I turned it over. On the back, Abe had stuck a tiny piece of tape, and on the tape, in careful pencil, he’d written: L.M. — 1952.
We hung the mirror in the same living room where Brian had shattered it. In the same spot. Over the same nail.
Dad held it up. I stood back and told him where to put it.
