I woke up slowly, only being able to see as much through the glass as the melted silver was applied to the back of my glass. As more of the liquid was applied, the more I could see. I could see more and more, which pleased me because it meant I would be large. I assumed that meant I would be worth more, and that my owner would put me to good
I could not see who it was that was making me. This sort of frustrated me because I wanted to know my creator. He seemed to be taking good care in my creation, because I could see so well.
It’s so strange, being what I am. I can see everything in my view – everything down to the smallest detail. But when people look at me, they often only see themselves. They can stare for hours, and maybe notice only the smallest detail.
Unless, of course, there is an imperfection that mars their reflection. People tend to notice that. Then they gripe and complain about how horrible I am. They don’t stop to think that maybe it’s not my fault. I had no ability to create myself. Or maybe I was dropped, and that would not be my fault either!
But I digress. I was so new I was not even completed. And so far, my creator was taking great pains to make me as beautiful and flawless as he could. Which I appreciated, even though I could not see him.
At last, I was complete. I was left alone and allowed to dry. I watched as men scurried around the factory. They seemed to be both rushed and cautious not to break any glass – there seemed to be a tension in the air as they tried to balance the two stresses.
I took a better look at my surroundings[1]. I was in a large room with small windows around the top of the walls. Most of the windows were dirty and open. There was a large rope and pulley system to move large boxes of finished mirrors on one side of the room.
There was a large fire on the other end of the room. From this fire, men would pull melted silver out and replace it with solid silver. The fire was incredibly hot and fed constantly to keep it at the necessary temperature. The men tending the fire put on special outer clothes to protect them from the intense heat, and their gloves were very thick.
Large sheets of glass were brought in and cleaned. They were then carefully wiped down, then set in special racks to dry. Glass that was already dry were set on large tables, where men would paint the liquid silver from the fire. Then they were left to dry.
It hit me. Why was I not on a table?
I watched as the men hurried from one mirror to another, painting painfully slowly, then dashing to the next mirror.
Why had I been painted standing upright? Was my silver running down my back? I could still see, so I know I had at least a thin layer covering my back.
I stained to see another mirror standing upright that had silver drying and could see none.
The only thing that I could figure was that I was special.
The next day confirmed it.
A stamp was chiseled into me: “Made in France. 1840.”
Out of all the mirrors, only three were selected, and I was one of them.
I felt fragile, but whoever was shipping us off didn’t seem too concerned based on the way we were jostled about over rough roads. It was a miracle I didn’t break. But maybe the person knew what they were doing, and so I didn’t break. I hadn’t yet seen trust in action yet, and mirrors can only learn by seeing, not by doing.
What was worse than the wagon ride – for I am sure that was how we were transported – was being loaded into the next vessel. There was a jerk up – then up, up, up! – then a crash to the hard ground. It had to be a large, sea-going ship based on the large waves I felt and heard. Up and down. Up and down. Splash. Rush. Up and down. I heard more than just the waves – some of my human companions did not appreciate the up and down motion and I heard them, as well. I was grateful to be just me so I could experience, but I couldn’t feel pain or sickness.
Another rough unloading, another rough wagon ride, and then the box was opened. The sudden light was blinding to me, as I reflected the harsh sun’s rays back into the world. If I’d had eyes, I would have had to blink them a few times to adjust. As it was, I just had to reflect the light and see what I reflected.
I was in a store. That much was clear. There was a large counter, which I was behind, with shelves and shelves of merchandise: sugar, penny candy, buckles, handkerchiefs, candles (candle holders, candle snuffers, candle…,) ribbon, fabric, and bottles and jars stacked to the ceiling. And so much more. The floor was open for displays and shopping. The windows were large, covering most of the front of the building.
Carefully, I was set upright against a wall, along with the other rest of my companions from the box. And then we sat. And sat. And sat. The owner of the store had to dust us periodically. It would have been mundane, if not for all the interesting characters we saw.
There was Jimmy – a boy young enough to still be treated like a boy, but old enough to act like a man. He would come in a few times a week and steal some of the penny candy for him and his friends. The storekeeper caught him a few times, but he paid often enough that the storekeeper thought he wasn’t stealing much. The storekeeper should have asked me.
Then there was the lady in pink. The storekeeper never said her name, maybe he didn’t know it either, but she always wore pink. A big, flowy pink dress and a big, pink hat to match, with a pink feather sticking out of it. She almost always came in to buy new gloves, because her puppy – Pupkins was his name – had chewed another pair. I think she needed a new dog. And the dog needed a new name. But she didn’t ask my opinion, either.
Next there were the old men. This group of three men came in every day, drank coffee, and talked and laughed. They told the same stories, laughed at the same jokes, and even coughed a hacking cough at about the same point of each day. They could have been a bore or a nuisance, but they enjoyed each other so much it was enjoyable. Most of the time.
My favorite shopper was the man I called The Farmer. He only came in every few months. He was very careful with his purchases. He always counted his money very carefully. He’d calculate the amount of his purchases, often changing his mind about what he wanted or needed, then calculated again. Then he always paid in exact change. He never opened a charge account. But best of all, he always looked at me. He’d run his hand over me, check my price tag, mutter something about “maybe next time, Dear Elizabeth,” then sadly turn away. He never bought me, but he still made me feel wanted. That was all I needed. And it was fun to picture who Dear Elizabeth was.
I always pictured Dear Elizabeth as a beautiful woman. Long, blonde hair in tight curls. Bright red lips. Vibrant blue eyes. A small face, but not pinched. And her height came right up to The Farmer’s shoulders. That seemed about right for her. I pictured her as quiet and shy, rarely talking. She always had a fan she would constantly wave toward herself, or hide behind. Sometimes I pictured her as intelligent, with books opened around her. Or sometimes she was wise, and always quoting a philosopher. Or sometimes she wasn’t smart, but she was always kind. And kids. I always saw tons of kids. I knew I would never actually meet Dear Elizabeth, but I felt like I knew her and The Farmer.
One day, the shop keeper said The Farmer’s name: “Good afternoon, Jedidiah. I got a new plow you might be interested in. It’s a little smaller than what you were wanting, but not by much, and the price might be right for you.”
I loved watching Jedidiah’s face light up as he ran his hand over the plow.
“It is a little smaller than I had been hoping, but you were right about the price. I’ll take it!”
My face – if I had one – would have fallen when Jedidiah didn’t look at me once that single trip. I tried to tell myself the plow was important, maybe life or death for him. Life or death was worth not admiring me once. He’d be back. And maybe he’d bring Dear Elizabeth.
The hopes I felt dwindled as the days went on. One of my companions was purchased by someone new to the area. Then the other was, as well.
The next time Jedidiah came in, my silver seemed to jiggle with excitement. I watched as he carefully counted his purchases. If I’d had breath, I would have held it. He leaned close to the shop keeper and they carried on a conversation I was dying to hear. Was it about me? Was I going home with him? Would I get to meet Dear Elizabeth?
Jedidiah’s face split into a large grin. He handed the shop keeper a few more bills, then strolled over to me, gently picked me up, and carried me to his wagon. There, he carefully wrapped me in a large quilt, then lay me down.
The ride was just as rough as the trip to the general store, but I didn’t care. The ride could have cracked my edges and I wouldn’t have cared. I was purchased, I was wanted, I was going to meet Dear Elizabeth.
Once we arrived at our destination, I was not taken into the house like I had expected. Instead, I was carried to the barn and put in a stall with a bunch of hay. Jedidiah covered me until I couldn’t see anything and then… he left.
He left? Why did he leave?
I lay there for days, worrying. Wondering. Straining to see anything other than darkness. I could hear a cow mooing pitifully. I could hear footsteps, hoofprints, and animals eating. I was afraid they would start chewing the hay around me, or not see me and step on me and shatter me. But they never did. And then Jedidiah came back.
He carefully dusted the hay off and measured me. Then he buried me again. Again! After the care he took with me, though, I felt reassured that there was a purpose – a reason – for my hiding.
[1] The environment and exact procedure for this time is written to my best speculation. This is not meant to be an accurate historical recording.