So I let him.
I sat on the bottom step of the staircase and watched my father kneel on the living room floor and pick up my grandmother’s mirror, one piece at a time. He did it slowly. Carefully. He didn’t sweep the big pieces. He picked each one up by hand, in his gloves, and laid it in the box like it was something alive.
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.”
