I’m old. I don’t keep track of the years, but with the things that I’ve seen. And I know I’m old. I still remember the first thing I saw. It was dark and I was cold. I was wrapped in a heavy material. Everyday, I sat there in the cold waiting. I was waiting for someone that would come along and unwrap me from my cold blanket. And one day someone did. She was small compared to the others around her, just big enough to hold me on her own. She looked at me and studied me. And then she contorted her face and laughed, continuing on to smile. She took me and ran to another room. I was then set on her bed carefully. I sat there waiting for her next move. She ran her fingers along my smooth edges. I sat as still as I could so that she could examine me. She spent a few minutes just staring at me, expressionless. I was worried. She grabbed me and hoisted me up on to her wall where a waiting hook had been placed. It was perfect. I could see the whole room from that hook. And that hook is where I would sit. I would sit there for some time to come. I spent most of my life on that hook watching the girl grow up. Everyday she would find time to stare at me. Not long, at first, but as she grew older the time she spent looking at me grew as well. I didn’t complain. I just stared right back. Everything was great. Until one day, when the girl had been looking at me for a particularly long amount of time. She had been staring for what seemed like hours. Then she burst into tears. She was unpleased with me. She saw the flaws and imperfections I showed her and she hated me for it. I watched as slowly everyday she started to tear open her skin with a small, reflective piece of metal. Everyday she spent longer and longer studying me. And one day she hated me so much that she hit me. Once. Twice. Three times she hit me. And I was broken. Her hand was bloody and pieces of me stuck out of it. She was crying now. She fell into a heap on the floor around my pieces. She then leaned onto one of the walls and grabbed one my sharp edges from the floor. I tried to call for help, but I couldn’t make a sound. She took the piece and jammed it into her wrist, and then into the other. She gasped as the blood started to pour out. Standing slowly she stared at me again. She ran her bloody fingers around my now jagged edges. And smiled. It was the first time I had seen her smile in a long, long time. And then she fell to the ground, and I sat and watched as her face went pale and her blood spilled out onto the clean carpet. I sat there for a long time before anyone came and saw her lying on the ground. And it was the girl’s younger sister that came running in with a board game. She froze when she saw the ground and her hands released the box of the game spilling its contents into the pool of red. She ran out of the room and left me to continue looking at the tragedy. Soon after she came back with her mother and they both cried. Everything after that was fast. Before I knew it she was gone. And all that I would ever see of her again was a red stain on the floor that once gave her so much life and love. I would continue to sit on my hook through many more days to come. I would sit through the girl’s sister getting ready for her wedding. I would sit long enough to see what would have been the girl’s niece. I would even sit long enough to see the girl’s sister say her final words. And all of these were in the reflection of my face. The face of a broken mirror full of broken dreams. But even in my brokenness I would sit through new dogs, first days of school, and even a new family. And that is how I know I’m old. Not from the years that I don’t keep track of, but by the things I’ve seen and the things I remember.