Yesterday and Tomorrow

One can never really anticipate when the turning point of our life will be. In retrospect, it’s relatively easy to look back and see that our life changed for better—or worse—when we met a significant other, when we got a job, when a child was born, or maybe when we made a major decision in our lives.

Mine happened when my grandfather died.

I hadn’t really known my grandfather. My father and grandfather hadn’t been on speaking terms and I probably could count on one hand the number of times I had seen him or talked with him on the phone. Even after my dad died of cancer when I was a teenager, the alienation between my dad and his dad was continued by my mother perhaps out of respect for her dead husband, or maybe just because of force of habit.

So I was pretty surprised when I got a phone call from a lawyer’s office that my grandfather had died and left me something in his will. Apparently he didn’t have much. Taxes had eaten up his rickety old house and property, and he lived for the last few years strictly by claiming Social Security. But even though we didn’t really know each other, apparently blood was thicker than water. I visited the lawyer’s office, and left with an envelope from Gramps and a full-length antique mirror.

I waited until later that evening when I got back to my studio apartment to open the envelope. As for the mirror, I suspected that it was very old, and I had already made up my mind to sell it on Ebay and get what I could for it. My dreams of making a living as a web designer had been merely that, and I needed all the financial help I could get. Maybe Gramps had somehow anticipated that, and even though he didn’t have any cash, he had found a way to help me out in my present needs.

I lugged the mirror up three flights of stairs and stood it up in my apartment in the corner behind the front door and just to the left of the waterstained, flowered pull-out couch that also served as my bed. Then, without turning on the lights, I walked over to the window overlooking the street, sat down on a rickety wooden chair and tore open the envelope.

My eyebrows went up when I saw the letter inside. As soon as I saw it, I thought of Leonardo da Vinci. Because da Vinci was the creator of mirror writing—the art of writing documents backwards—and my grandfather had copied that technique. If I took my time, I knew that I could read the letter on my own, but it seemed odd to receive such a letter AND a mirror, and then not use them together.

And so I decided to turn the light on, something that I rarely did for budgetary reasons. The bare 75-watt bulb above my head put a harsh light into the room and odd shadows everywhere, but at least I could see better. I had received the mirror covered by an old canvas cover, which I kept on it, feeling that it would be more likely to stay Ebay friendly if I didn’t scar it up. Now I pulled that cover from the top, and let the canvas drop to the floor. I pulled my chair in front of the mirror and held the letter up to the mirror. I read:

Dear Grandson:

            Circumstances have prevented me from being a greater part of your life, but I hope to change that. If you have received this letter, it means that I am dead. But I am not gone.

            Our family has a special legacy, and that legacy comes in the form of this mirror. I don’t know how old the mirror is, or how it came to be. I suspect it is at least several hundred years old. I do know that it has been handed down from father to son, and in our case, grandfather to grandson, for many generations. I was once a young man, and I know you are probably considering the sale of the mirror and how it would help your immediate financial needs. Put that thought out of your head. The mirror is worth far, far more to you than you can ever dream.

            Somehow the mirror has bonded to our family, and we have bonded to it. In coming days, I encourage you to examine the mirror closely, and I trust that you will discover what I am talking about. Discovering the truth about this mirror will change your life.