The mirror was in a client's attic, wrapped in an old quilt. They said keep it, they didn't want it anymore.
I carried it down alone. Eighty pounds, maybe more. My back reminded me I'm seventy-nine.
I propped it against the truck and caught my own reflection. The year had carved new lines into my face. My wife's face was gone from beside me.
Her bicycle still hangs in the garage. The bell rusted silent. I ring it sometimes, just to hear something.
I took a long lunch that day. Sat on the tailgate with a sandwich and the mirror leaning there. Watched people walk by.
None of them knew me. None of them saw what I saw in that glass. A man still standing after a hard year, still lifting things, still showing up.
The mirror's in my bedroom now. I check it every morning. Not for vanity—to make sure I'm still here.