My grip
tightened on the memories I held, for when I looked at it, at the thick tower
shaped glass with its simple plastic top, the color of sycamore leaves, I did
not see what others saw. (Oh yes, I had captured the bland and careless look in
their eyes at dinner parties when they grabbed it, to shake it’s contents
clumsily upon their food, and then the slightly raised eyebrows as they
wondered why I watched them until it was safely set back down.)
What I saw
instead was the vinegar bottle in its native setting, in the tall wooden
cabinet in the kitchen of my Grandparent’s house, behind mirrored doors that
fascinated my nine year old self-for the mirrors were not plain, but made up of
a pattern of vertical stripes a centimeter in width; alternating a shiny strip
with one of frosted silver, through which no reflection returned. Hence, a broken image of the girl that stared
was delivered; with parts of eyes and just one nostril. No matter which she
turned, fragmented.
