It is, when you come to think of it.
A mirror is a tool. Beyond sating vanity, it can be used to start a fire, peer at enemies or pretty girls around corners, or as a platform for chopping powdery drugs.
But I'm not a v
(more)ery practical person.
When I was a kid, moving into a new house every three months, I would immediately locate the house's mirrors, to see if I'd found the Portal. The world on the other side of the mirror always looked better - reversed, all beds appeared fluffier, all lamps brighter, all half-open doors more beckoning.
If the mirror had a frame, I would try to work my fingers under it, to find a crack that would blossom across the frictionless surface and open up to that Other Place. Usually I just came away with splinters.
If there was no frame, I would just peer deep into the edges of the mirror, trying to look around its corner. Without fail, I would simply bump my head against the cold glass. I'd rest my face there, sneaking glances at my twin, whispering questions about the Other Side.
I don't know why she didn't answer. She was looking right at me.
See - the mirror couldn't be just a summary. It must be another world, because the girl in the mirror had brown eyes, and why would I, in a family of blue-eyed people?
*
The girl on the Other Side still lives in my lovely wooden floorlength mirror. I'm not sure what color her eyes are anymore. She keeps her gaze on her shoes, carefully turning her legs to check for rips in her tights. Now and then, though, I see her reach out, fingertips nearly brushing that cold glass, waiting for one small fracture.
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