Slender, bowed tree limbs became our fishing poles, which we used to catch imagined fish. We wrestled twenty-pound beauties to shore with an exaggerated display of theatrics, cooked our trout dinners over hypothetical fires, and ate from imperfect bowls fashioned of river clay. When late afternoon came and the sun was shadowed by trees, we slept on beds of stones rendered smooth by the maternal massage of the river current. Such were the summers of my childhood. The river was our mirror.
Children find such escape with magical ease.
There are the large mirrors mounted on opposite walls of barbershops, which seem particularly well-suited for purposes of immersion. A child's first haircut is a mesmerizing adventure. Reflected in the eyes of friends, neighbors and strangers, children unearth new universes, possi-bilities, mythical lands. Adults, alas, must find their looking-glasses elsewhere. Caught in the frantic action of a business day, we grown-ups learn to use makeshift mirrors.