silver-plate · 1928 · the dressing-table drawer
silver-plated, with the initial of a great-aunt whose first name no one in the family agrees on engraved on the lid. the plating has worn through at the edge where, for forty years, a thumb opened and closed it before going downstairs. inside, on one side, the round mirror; on the other, the remains of a cake of pressed powder, the colour of weak tea, scored by use.
it reflects an eye, mostly, or a corner of cheek — never more. anyone who picks it up holds it the way she held it, slightly tilted and a little too close to the face. the gesture passes down the family the way handwriting does, without anyone noticing they have learned it.
the last person to look into it each day is the niece, who is now old enough to keep it in her own bag. she opens it after a letter, before a difficult call, in the car before a particular street. she does not always need to look. sometimes the opening is the whole gesture.
field-note a compact is a private weather. you carry your own light in it, and you check the light before deciding the day.