Above the credenza in the dining room there is one, mottled with age and water stains, browned out dots in the lower and upper corners. Another lives in my parents bedroom, nearly the same height and width, the only exception being the gilded frame. If you count the bathrooms and the coat closet just off the living room that brings us up to five. The next closest is the rearview in Dad's puke green Duster, that was way before they added the side mirrors. And so its no surprise really that in my younger years I was far from obsessed by how I looked, I don't know that I ever really remember "seeing" myself in anything outside of a reflection in a rain puddle. My obsession lay with my thoughts and ideas, conversations with characters, real and imaginary, all colorful in my mind were these mirrors, windows to my soul.