After two decades of service, the six-foot-high, 10-foot-wide mirror covering our living room wall started falling down on Thanksgiving Day. It came with the house, a colonial in Whitestone, Queens, which my parents bought when I was born. I was 23 and about to drive to LaGuardia Airport to pick up Tim, my soldier boyfriend of two years. He was spending the holiday with me after being stationed at Fort Benning, Georgia, for the past three months.
I was in my attic bedroom putting on my “Welcome Home” outfit — black stockings, boots, a checkered skirt, and a fitted black sweater — when I heard Mom scream. I took the steps two at a time to find her and my 18-year-old brother holding the mirror up, their four hands, strained faces, and bodies looking longer in their slanted reflections. Keep reading »
