An Heirloom
Your mother’s glass. The only one in the cabinet that
does not match the others. It’s beautiful. Purple
crystal scattered on linoleum like a layer of fine
mauve dust. The first tear falls from a thousand
fractaled faces, glistening in the sun. Birds turn
dirges in the late autumn air, as you push slivers
into the dustpan—the vision of her soft hand around
the glass fades with each reluctant sweep. Tears
pool in your eyes and you wonder why she gave
you such maladroit arms, sunspotted and shaky. Or
a brain wired to prefer the taste of Diet Coke in a
glass over ice, just as your mother did. Shards clink
in the trash, your tears race them to the bottom. The
lid closes in a soft thud—the birds stop singing
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