A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 5, 2006 || 9:57 pm

Another Saturday.

I was sitting at the computer, hood up (it is co-olllld) and quietly debating whether or not I’d eat two cookies and take a nap or haul up and go to the gym for an extended weekend sweatfest. Scout was behind me on the loveseat, contently weaving scraps of fabric together with her fingers. She looks like a cherub, I swear: Head bent to task, serene face, hair falling smooth as silk against her nape.

There was a crash from the back of the house; it was quite beautiful, echoing up the dining room steps and resonating off of high ceilings, bouncing off of walls and shimmering through the wide facings of doorways. Crystal. Something crystal had broken.

I closed my eyes: “Please be something I hate. Please be something I hate.

“PleasebesomethingIhate.”

“Was it something momma hated?” Scout shouted back to Sam. It was his kitchen day.

“It was a wiiiiinne glass!” he shouted in return. I hate shouting between rooms, always have. Please, all you people, my gut says, please let’s be civilized and converse, facing one another, in the same room and with softened voices.

“Which?!” I then shouted.

“UMMM…” he hollered back.

I made my way through the living room, the family room, the dining room and went into the kitchen, where Sam cautiously held an ornate stem aloft. It was intact (what?!) and had a silver dollar-sized curve of lower bowl attached to it: The fanciest coffee scoop you’ve ever seen. The black tile floor sparkled from one end to the other with crystal diamonds winking in the low morning sun. Some pieces were powdery-fine, some were jagged and gorgeous hunks.

Wedding crystal, given to us by the infamous and She Of Wonderful Taste, Aunt Brosh.

Piper stepped out of her room and watched Sam and me watching one another. I finally tucked in one side of my mouth and said, “For once, I sure am glad you’re wearing your shoes in the house. I’ll get the big hunks while you grab the broom and dustpan for the rest.

“You’ll have to sweep the whole kitchen, it exploded everywhere.”

“I’m really sorry, mom,” Sam told me.

“It’s okay,” I replied, stepping with floppy-socked feet gingerly from tile to tile. I was picking up the jagged, bigger pieces, examining them. Some I put in the remnants of the glass’ bowl; I sailed others toward the stainless steel trashcan.

“Doesn’t matter much. I’ll take these pieces and make something beautiful of them.”

Later in the day, while headed for my studio, I overheard Piper on the phone. She was recounting my words of earlier. “I swear to God, that’s why I love her so much, even though she’s sometimes hard to live with: ‘I’ll take these pieces and make something beautiful of them.’

“I don’t know any other mother who would say something like that. She’s amazing.”

I did an about face; instead of going into the studio to work I stepped down into the sacrosanct dusk of my bedroom. I made my way across the wonderful expanse of it to sit in front of the fireplace, where I placed my forehead on the slate hearth and began to cry in great and racking sobs.

2 worked it out »

  1. c 11.5.2006

    what more could a mommy ask for?

     
  2. Kate 11.6.2006

    Chills, all the way up.

     

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