Reflection

Whatever you do, never sell my silver hand mirror. Promise me, it must remain in the family, Promise. These were my Grandmother dying words to me as I take her hand and she slips quietly away. When I was eight my parents were killed in an auto accident, and I went to live with grandma she was my only living relative my father her only child. I never saw her cry or mourn at his death she said life went on, and that was that. Her name was Rose Black, but everyone called her Rosie even me. She was a lighthearted happy woman and her character was reflected in every aspect of life. The house a sprawling affair, she lived in her whole life belonged to her father, and before him his father is brightly colored and decorated with a whimsy Rosie loved. As the last mourners leave, reassuring me Rose will be with me always. I shut the door turning to consider the mess of dirty dishes they can wait until morning I am just so tired. I start to wonder about the mirror and why Rosie was so worried about its safety. I want to look at it; I want to look at now. I turn off the lights, and climb the stairs, from the landing I can dimly see the entire ground floor, smiling how pretty it is almost as if spring lives here year round. I was fortunate to have had someone in my life like Rose Black. Her room is at the end of the hall, I enter, turn on the light there on the dressing table I see the sliver mirror. A light creeps in through an opening in the heavy drapes its rays touch the silver giving it an eerie glow. This room is so not like Rosie I think to myself. The velvet drapes on the windows block out any life from the outside entering in; the furniture is dark and filled with ugly ornate carvings. The walls are papered with large red roses and scrolls, adding to the darkness that surrounds this space. The bed is a large four-poster at first glance you think could hide an army in the piles of pillows, and quilts yet somehow it still looks uncomfortable. At the far, end of the room stands an armoire grotesque in style with a large chair to match. I walk toward the window and the dressing table then sit down; on top of the table, are a variety of hand blown glass perfume bottles, a delicate lace runner, a small round tray, and the silver hand mirror aglow with a ghostly light. I pick it up for further inspection; it is made of the finest silver and feels refreshingly, soothing to my touch. The back is carved with morning glories and poppies, vines cascade down the bottom is a sunburst its rays reaching out towards the flowers. Beautifully scrolled initials are at the center LTG those are not Roses initials I whisper. Another unusual thing about the mirror is the handle a tangle of vines carved in silver that look like a crown of thorns making the mirror awkward to hold. What is it about this mirror that makes it unique? I turn it over and look at my reflection. Pretty enough with long black hair and dark eyes a bit haggard but that is to be expected considering the last few days. A dark haired beauty that is what Rosie called me when I was little. We were exact opposites she fair with blonde hair and hazel eyes, cheerful people would say, Rose bubbles with enthusiasm, me quiet and shy with dark hair and eyes, a non-chance taker I liked to stay in Rosie’s shadow where I felt safe. I was about to replace the glass on the dressing table when I thought I saw something move in the shadows. Stop it now, in this gloomy room I am surprised ghosts are not popping out from under the woodwork. I turn out the light and leave the room. I am tired tomorrow will be soon enough to deal with mirrors, dirty dishes and what to do next with Roses estate.