THE MIRROR THAT OUTLIVED EVERYONE

I am glass, silver sheet and reflective light. I hang on a wall, still witness in a life of motion. They glimpse themselves in me, their fleeting looks, the fleeting moments they stand in front of me. I do more than this, though. I see the intricacies of a family's heritage, a living testament of the people who've stood in front of me. I am the mirror that lived through all of them.

I remember my first owner, a young woman with a braided back and a face full of hope-filled dreams. She stood before me, her reflection a canvas for her daydreams. I saw her practice dialogue, practice smiles, and arrange her locks into a dozen styles before venturing out. Her reflection was alive, replete with life and an unmarred future. When they were together with her husband, their eyes would take up my space, a delicate tension of love and promise. I watched their quiet conversation in the subtle raising of an eyebrow, the gentle touching of fingers.

Their children grew up in front of my eyes, their faces changing with each passing year. I caught a glimpse of a boy with a wicked glint in his eye, a girl with a scowl of defiance, and a snapshot of laughter and quarrels. The boy would steal sly glances at his first love, his expression a confused mix of shyness and worship. The girl would pose in front of me for hours, her face a battlefield of teenage angst, her tears a momentary smudge on my surface. They acted out their own short melodramas, but I experienced the whole story, the unsaid things that defined their lives.

Years went by and the faces in my mirror broke. The girl with the braids became a mother with the creases of worry and joy on her skin. The hopeful hopes were replaced with a muted sense of duty. Her husband's face is a topography of a difficult life, his eyes a little more tired, his smile a little wiser. I saw their reflections grow old, their hair a little grayer, their steps slower.

My surface now is normally empty, a blank page awaiting a reflection that never comes. The children have grown up and moved away. The braid woman and her husband are gone. But their shadows remain, an ethereal memory of all the times I have witnessed. I still can see the young woman rehearsing her dreams, the fighting children over a toy, the sweet glances of an old couple growing old together. I am merely a mirror, but I bear a family's history, a quiet record of the faces passing through. The glass can be washed, yet the memories are etched in my heart, a quiet story of a life lived and a love that remains.