And inside the frame was the new glass.
Ezoic
Clear. Perfectly clear. Not a ripple in it.
Ezoic
I looked into it, and for the first time in my life, my reflection didn’t look like it was standing underwater. It was just me. Thirty-seven years old, in a sweatshirt with paint on the sleeve, with my hair in a messy bun and tears running down my face.
“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.
