Ezoic
Like it had been thrown.
“No, no, no.”
I reached out and touched the edge of the frame. The wood was cool and smooth under my fingers, the way it had always been. The carved roses on the top corners were still there. One of them had a chip out of a petal.
That mirror had hung in my grandmother’s bedroom for as long as I could remember.
Her name was Lena. She was my father’s mother. She lived in a little white farmhouse an hour north of town with a porch that sagged in the middle and a kitchen that always smelled like cinnamon and coffee. Every summer, from the time I was five until I was fourteen, my parents dropped me off there for two weeks.
Ezoic
The mirror hung over her dresser. It was tall and oval, in a dark walnut frame with carved roses at the top. The glass was old and a little wavy, so your reflection looked like it was standing underwater.
