Her reflection was a kaleidoscope of buried memories. The sapphire fabric was the evening sky outside her half-open Brooklyn window, it was Esther’s silk robe in the kitchen at midnight, and the bottles of Higgins inks on her father’s store shelves. The trim at the edges of her skirt and sleeves was the silver in Esther’s graying hair, the giant stockpot on the kitchen stove, and the band of her sister’s wedding ring. In the mirror, Augusta’s pewter eyes were the same as her mother’s before she got sick: filled with uncomplicated delight. Past and present, joy and sorrow mingled together in
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