Aunt Betty's Mirror

Aunt Betty’s Mirror

On the somber drive to my aunt’s lake house, after her funeral, I already know what I want to take home with me; a wood-framed antique mirror that hangs by the front door, a poignant reminder of countless summer Sundays when everyone is here.

Today, at the end of my first floor hallway, it hangs with purpose: reflection.

We see ourselves in the mirror every day, a quick check before leaving the house or flashing by, heading upstairs. To anyone else it’s an ordinary mirror--anything but ordinary to me. It jogs dear memories, vivid scenes from Sundays at the lake: I run, dying to be first in the water, my bare feet slapping the dock; breath-holding contests below the wavy surface ‘til we’re pruned and blue; my brother water skis past the house, showing off, as usual; Mom and her sisters, ice clinking in their high ball glasses, compete to be heard over the buzz of speed boats, ‘the game’ on the radio, squeals from the rope swing, or the newest baby crying.

We surround the picnic table, diving in to bowls of potato salad, baked beans and coleslaw, and grabbing charcoal broiled chicken, burgers and hot dogs. After dark we huddle on the porch for the fireworks display.

I peer in, beyond the antique glass. I enter a space where I see Mom and Dad, a handsome couple, younger, more vibrant, aging over the years--now gone. I see my brother and sisters, carefree children, moody adolescents, rising adults—not all gone. Faces that look like me, dearly missed, forever etched in the mercury backing of the mirror. If I can see them, they can see me. Who’s looking today? My sister, an aunt, my dad, or, maybe, a younger me?