He remembered everything. All he had to do was close his
eyes and see it, feel it. And all that led to it. And long after that.
A single moment.
That's all it took. A violent jerk of his father's hand, the silence in between, and the
shrieking sound of the glass shattering against the cold, marble floor. Silence
again. His eyes fixed on the shattered pieces of blue glass scattered around,
pieces that had once made up his favourite vase. His favourite blue vase. He
used to love the way it reflected the light, when you drew the curtains,
glittering the sunny days, dull the
cloudy days. A silent companion in his growing up, mirroring the weather and
his mood alike. He kneeled to pick up the precious pieces, wanting to glue them
together again, make everything all right again. But his hands were shaking and
his tears blurred his vision.
"What are you
doing? You're going to cut yourself." And, indeed, drops of blood were
already staining the glass. He watched his mother as she was cleaning the mess,
her features drawn, her hair a mess. His father had banged the door a minute earlier,
never to see him again.
His hands were
shaking now, as well. He was trying to collect the pieces of the broken glass
off the floor. Odd, wasn't, it? In the decades that followed the "vase
"day as he liked to call it, he had never broken a thing. Not even close.
And ,here he was, in his own kitchen, picking up the pieces of a glass. A glass
his wife threw at him, right before she marched out the door. Was he never to
see her again?
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing