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.
“Left,” I said. “No. Your left. Up a little. Down. Okay. There.”
He stepped back.
Ezoic
We both looked at it.
Ezoic
“Your grandmother would complain it’s crooked,” Dad said.
I tilted my head.
“It is crooked.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
We adjusted it together. He held one side, and I held the other, and we nudged it a quarter inch at a time until it was perfectly straight.
Then he went into the kitchen to make coffee, the way he always does after a job is finished.
