The Heirloom Eva Zimmerman Burlingame- 8th grade
Maria was spring-cleaning. It was what she always did, specifically on the second Tuesday of spring – she called it tradition. Meg called it a joke. Meg’ s foster mother had always been superstitious; she was the kind to fear broken mirrors, never exact bad karma by squashing bugs, and heaven forbid she walked beneath a ladder, for surely, she should faint. Meg, well … not so much. She only believed in ghosts.
Meg perked up just then, half-rising from the worn green sofa, as she heard Maria bustling down the central hallway of the house. She hopped up off the couch, slipping her phone into her back pocket, and walked forward, greeting Maria as she entered.“ Here,” she said, lifting some of the boxes Maria had set down.“ Where should I take these?”
Maria seemed to ponder for a moment, dusting off her long, blue skirt with weary hands.“ You can take it to the attic, hun,” she smiled her thanks – a warm smile that creased her bright eyes, youthful even in her fifties.
Meg heaved the boxes up higher and began walking down the hall. The dubious ladder leading into the attic was already lowered, and Meg ducked through the trap door. She set down the boxes, glancing around. She could see dust drifting in the light that poured through the small window. She moved to it, peering out of the clouded glass, staring into her yard.
Then, a glint caught her eye. She saw a form with a dusty cloth slowly slipping off of it; it was tucked in the corner. She walked forward, gently tugging the cloth off; it was a mirror. Kneeling by the heirloom, she ran her fingers along the wooden frame, feeling the ornate carvings glide beneath the pads of her fingers. She shifted her gaze from the golden woodwork to look at the mesmerizing glass.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noticed a strangeness to the reflective surface. It was shined to a perfect polish, free from any tarnish even now, and its silvery glint was maddeningly hypnotic. Yet, as she stared, and stared, and stared … it was missing.
Her reflection was gone.
Maria heard a clattering from the attic. Light flickered across the hallway. She smiled to herself, knowing Meg must have pried open that rusty attic window. She continued to stir the wooden spoon in her hand, folding the cookie batter she was preparing with practiced movement and patience. She tapped her foot on the kitchen tile. The radio was on, playing some jazzy mix.
As she went on with her day, however, a strange feeling crept over her. Where was Meg? She padded on light feet up the attic ladder, leaning forward to peer upwards, not quite through the trap door.
“ Meg?” She called.“ Meg, honey, it’ s been an hour – are you alright?”