The Glass Man

He snaps the string, imprints a solid blue line across the sheet of glistening glass. Adjusting the blade, he slices through with a clean, precise cut.

Glass is a clear shield, transparent and fragile, but rooms full of windows allow for the recapture of restless nightmares. When he was little, his father drunk and raging with a hammer, chasing his mother. Epiphany in the middle of bitter nights. Daddy beating the windows out of the house, out of the car. Daddy at the windows, then a sonic boom of smashed glass and violence. Those jagged window remains singing sorrow in splinters, bursting in the frigid night air.

These days, glass is smooth like a sorrowful lake of past secrets. Examining the sheet of glass, he tackles the rough edges with a belt sander.



8 thoughts on “The Glass Man

  1. A wonderful piece of prose, hot writing, my dear. How he gets past the broken shards of boyhood, smoothes rough edges, turns glass into art. The sanding reminds me of a story from my wedding shower. All the guests wrote a piece of marriage advice on an index card and my mom punched holes in them and tied them together with ribbon into a little keepsake book. One of my aunts wrote “if you chip a glass or bowl, sand it smooth and it will last for a long time.” πŸ™‚

    • Thank you so much, Joan. I appreciate the kind words. That’s a gem of a story about your aunt. She knew what she was talking about. I miss those days of extended family and seeing and being around my aunts. What a neat little keepsake book you have there also! πŸ˜€

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