PHOTO PROMPT © Nathan Sowers
The oval mirror had hung in the entry, presiding over a table set there for purses and gentlemen’s hats. A lady could touch up her Gibson Girl hairdo, and a gentleman could straighten his collar.
Today, the mirror would be sold or trashed. There had been a coup, and the house was no longer stately. Tired and sagging, it stood like an elderly woman whose stockings were sagging at her ankles. Tired, wind-worn, unattractive.
Auctions were funerals, really. A 50-year lifetime of stuff, set out in the yard for human scavenger birds to pick over and reject.
Just Writing! 