Mirror-rorrim
I’ve been playing around with the idea of reflections in a mirror, and am eager to research and write the story of Carolyn Murdoc and nyloraC codruM. Here’s how the story starts….so far. :)
Carolyn Murdoc was walking through the farmer’s market on that warm, sun-filled spring day, when she saw the beautiful wood-framed mirrors and immediately thought of the perfect spot for one of them in her apartment.
“Excuse me sir,” she said to the gray-eyed, short-bearded, 60-something year old merchant, “I’d like to see the mirror that’s hanging by the picture of Mt. Rainier, please.”
“Of course,” the man said taking it off the hook and laying it on the table in front of her. “This is one of my favorites. See the detail in the old wood,” he pointed out, “how the nail holes and flaws bring out its beauty?” His hands caressed the fine wood frame.
“Where is the wood from?”
“It’s from an old building that was being torn down.”
“Well,” Carolyn’s blue eyes smiled as she said, “it’s beautiful, and I’ll take it.”
“Alright,” the man grinned, “let me wrap it up for you.”
She watched as the woodworker carefully laid the mirror down on big sheets of paper. The gentleness and, was it reverence, as he stroked the wood one last time spoke volumes toward the pride of craftsmanship he had invested in it.
He leaned down. “Looks like it got some dust on it. I’ll polish it up for you.” Breathing a fog onto the mirror, like a breath of life, he rubbed the mirror spotless with a clean cloth, then the frame.
As Carolyn watched a glow seemed to pulse with each brush of the cloth. That’s strange, she thought, I wonder… “What kind of building did the wood came from?”
He set the cloth aside, rubbing down the frame until his finger paused in a nail hole. “It was an old pioneer church on my son-in-law’s family farm in North Dakota. It was precariously leaning and becoming a danger, so they decided to take it down. I asked for the wood,” he closed one side of the wrapping paper as if covering a garden seed with hopeful dirt, “and I just couldn’t let the stories in the wood of that building be thrown away.”
“You drove a long way to get it. From Washington to North Dakota and back?”
The old woodworker’s melancholy radiated. “It means a lot to me to breath life back into old wood by framing up pictures and mirrors.”
He closed the other sides of the paper shutting secrets away, and sealed them in with a barrier of see-through tape. As he finished wrapping the mirror, he went on. “Having a bit of David’s family’s legacy being shared with other people brings a bit of joy to both our souls.”
Souls, thought Carolyn, mine is battered and bruised. How can he speak so easily of souls as if there was ever a chance of your soul being right with this life?
“Well,” Carolyn said as she handed him her credit card to pay, “I’m glad you enjoy your work, and I’m really glad I found the perfect mirror—and frame,” she added, “for my new…home.” A shot of pain zipped through her as she flash-visioned walking through the apartment, saying yes to the apartment manager, paying the deposit and first month’s rent, getting her keys, and putting the first three boxes on the kitchen counter. This wasn’t what she thought would be happening to her at this time in her life—a few hundred more paper cuts to her heart joined the thousands of cuts bleeding out her dreams and innocence.
Handing her credit card back to her, the woodworker hesitated. “You’ll be okay. Hang on to your faith in God, and don’t let go.” He handed the mirror to her like handing a precious heirloom to a drug addict. “Don’t let go, let it play out, and you’ll see why when you get there.”
Tears welled up in Carolyn’s eyes. How did he know I’m broken, and how will I ever get to ‘there’? The inflating balloon of despair and misery pulsed in her chest. She blinked the blurred rain of pain from her vision.
“Hold on, dear lady.” His gentle hand squeeze on her arm radiating strength.
Carolyn replied, “I’ll try.” Turning away, she headed for her car hugging the warm-seeming mirror to her chest.
Aren’t mirrors usually cold?