I Smashed My Precious Wine Glass and I Enjoyed It
I’m about to turn 45 and I want to blow shit up.
I was taking the roasted, sweet potatoes out of the oven, a voracious animal ready to devour her second helping and knew but didn’t care that the glass baking dish was probably still too hot to grab with the wet kitchen towel lazily wrapped around its edge. Ready to burn it was, I tossed it abruptly onto the stove where it met my precious little wine glass standing on the far ledge clean from her prior night’s bath.
I heard the crash and new instantly the cup would hold no more. Instead of feeling angry at my carelessness and sad at the departure of my beloved, I felt a devilish smile twist my face, then my body into a childlike delight.
Was that pleasure I felt gazing at my sweet, crystal beauty all cracked up and broken?
I began to think about what else needed a good smashing and how I might display the glass with her broken bits in my apartment as some kind of note to self about what I need more of in my life.
To be like her, happily broken.
I’ve been restless as hell for the past week. Something is brewing.
I feel:
- anxious, angry, sad
-thirsty, happy, hungry
-curious, confused, open
-isolated, empty, lonely
-hopeful…
