Dropping off my bag in my bedroom after walking home from work in the beautiful Indian Summer weather I noticed something was awry. Items off my dresser were splayed on the floor and investigating further there was a noticeable empty space on the wall above. Retreated to my study in denial, trying to be stoic. This has not happened. Bracing myself, ventured back in to take in the scene of the crime. Shards of mirrored glass bleated from the floor as I turned on the standing lamp.
Was it the apeman lumbering through the house, barreling up the stairs, pounding on the floor? The brute and blunt force of a slamming door? A neighbor’s row fuelled by chemical and malt liquor? The roar of the garbage truck? A sudden gust from a window left half-open? A faulty weak nail?
Eyes moving down from the naked space on the wall, peered behind my dresser, and did not like what I saw. Caked in the space was my beloved Vigan mirror, from the top intact, bottom defeated on the floor. Losing grip on the wall it slammed to floor. Pulling the dresser back, I lifted up the frame and examined the damage. Shapes and pieces here and there, picking them up carefully bit by bit, and wondered what to make of the mess, could I put it back together like a puzzle? With glue or epoxy, bright light to work by, and patience, could my treasure be restored?
Unable to afford a professional, seeking help from artisan friends, do I really need another home improvement project? Let’s hope I can put it back together again.
The mirror is special. Brought it from Vigan, in Illocos Norte, Philippines. Etched Venetian glass, it is typical of Spanish colonial era Filipiniana. I’m surprised it hasn’t broken yet, having survived a journey around the world and several relocations. And it looked so perfect right there in that room in that spot, mirroring the antique bahay kubo capiz paneled window above my bed and a mahogany plantation chair with inlaid mother-of-pearl while the sunlight was streaming in.
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