The Girl in the Mirrow

It began in the spring of 1956. The thought was to search for a past I didn't want to remember. Georgia had said that we needed to see exactly where we had come from, in order to see where we were going; that every step we took outside, we had to look inside, too. 

She was moving on and here I am with sweaty palms and a step behind, dragging my heels. I didn't want to go back. Wasn't nothin' good there.

The train was late by a half hour. A lady on the siding was cursing at the conductor who held his hand out to help her onto the boarding platform. He smiled.

As late as the train was, it was surprising how few people waited. No more than twenty milled about, saying last goodbyes or making plans for later meetings. Young mothers hurried here and there after little ones trying to outdo each other. 

The conductor was finally free of the woman, his brow creased with years of monotony as he looked at his watch to check the schedule. 

It would make a good painting.

No, 1956 was not a good year. Lovers and happy times outnumbered by horrors and villains. All residing in a chevelle mirror in her hired room. Every scene set against the spider-webs in the silver and the tin ceiling reflected above my bed.