nana's mirror
looking glass into the past
memories faded


I had two mirrors, both from my nana's (great-grandmother's) house.  She came here, to Canada, at 19 - born in Hales Owen around 1893.  She was pretty, my nana, but had a hard life.  Flirted with on the train from Montreal, she had a salt and pepper shaker from a soldier she met.  They were painted and lovely and are probably either sold or in my mother's collection.  The story was also that she brought these mirrors over from England, but that proved untrue.  It didn't matter, they were both from her house and solid memories from my childhood.

These mirrors stayed with me during my tumultous first marriage, living on my own, and three moves with Bob.  One broke, the square one, but the round one was always on my wall.  It reminded me of her, of my childhood, of the house in Port Colborne that she lived in - and then my brother did.  Of mates beds and mothball smelling blankets to the aroma of white pepper when you opened a drawer.

Last night, Bob broke the round one.  My last tangible link to my nana - just gone in an instant.  I don't typically care about things.  But that mirror was irresplaceable.  It was hers.  She held it, she looked into it, she decorated her house with it. 

She was gone when I was still a child.  I remember her gardens.  Her front porch.  I remember her, and I cherished that mirror.     Today's task is finding something to replace it - something to cover the wall with it's scraped paint and emptiness.    I feel like I do that a lot - find things to hide the scrapes and emptiness, cover up holes, and bury pieces of my past that tie me to the future. 

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Maybe that's how things go - the breaking of mirrors, the loss of childhood, and one just stands in the driveway, looking for unbroken cardboard boxes to contain the wreckage.  I hate being almost 50.