Is anybody out there?

It's so odd to think that there is nobody left in the world--except maybe one other person--who has any memory of the things that seemed to me at one time to be the pillars of our existence. The objects of my memory were so real and prominent that they seemed to have always been exactly where they stood, and so fixed that they would remain so forever. There was a large mirror in my grandmother's kitchen that must have been one hundred years old at the time. The wooden frame was dark mahoghany and the glass mirror was shaded in the center in the exact shape as if a person's darkened reflection were staring back out at the one who looked in. I always was a little afraid of it; it looked eerie, and ghostlike. I came to believe that so many people looked into it so many times that it was worn out from all their reflections. Though at the time, I knew no one who had died, I still thought that all the previous owners of the hand-me-down mirror were now ghostly figures themselves. I never asked any questions, we kids seldom did, so no one ever explained anything; whether they could have or not I don't know. Nor do I know if the mercury backing of a mirror glass can be eroded by being looked into. That may be so because I can still see the shape of the figure looking out.