The Touch
We have a bowl of broken glass, which is an odd thing to say because my wife has been dead for nearly five years. But old habits are hard to break and I almost always think in the plural, especially when it comes to things around the house. But back to the bowl, because saying you have one full of broken glass might also be an odd thing to say. But I’ve got one and it’s full.
It started out with sea glass, the soft gently ground glass you find along the shore. And then we moved into our new home built on the site of a once older home, the home of my great-grandparents. Whenever we dug beneath the big oaks and in the yard, we found glass. Some of it was unbroken and those sit on my kitchen window sill. But most of it was just shards, bits and pieces of cups and saucers, plates and bottles, buried or twisted by fire. Deep blue, green, white, clear.
Every time I dug up a piece I could feel the current of their lives moving through it as though it were coated in memories. I met my great-grandfather right after I was born, and he died shortly thereafter. But my great-grandmother lived into my 20s, and I knew her well. I have other, more complete mementos, but the glass feels more intimate and personal, a thing from their daily lives, maybe not loved, but certainly used. And failing never feeling their touch once again, it is nice to touch them, even at a distance, through the broken glass.