Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Broken Glass Window

December 21, 2011
By BalletShoes BRONZE, Yarmouth, Maine
BalletShoes BRONZE, Yarmouth, Maine
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

I step into the attic,
and there it is.
The broken glass window.
Old and almost gone.

I walk past the dump,
and the sun shines off of something.
It hits my eye, and I squint.
I run over, and think of what it could be.
A piece of metal? A mirror?
Then I see it.
A broken glass window.

The sun beams through
my glass window on
the weekends,
and wakes me up.

Little pools of light
and warmth
spread on my floor.
I close the shade over
the window, and the light
I remember the little crack
on the side of my window.
I open the shade back up and smile.

My moving truck drives away
with me in it.
I wave goodbye
to my broken glass window
in the attic.

I walk down a street,
A street I’ve never been down before,
and see an old treehouse
with a cracked glass window on one side.

My brush strokes across
the page, not knowing
what to draw.
After an hour or so,
I realize I am drawing
an old broken window.
The window
from my old house.

I am sitting.
Just sitting on the floor,
and staring at the blank wall.
Suddenly something hits
my window, just enough
to make some little cracks.
I now have a broken glass window.

The cursor on my computer blinks,
and dares me to type.
I look around,
and search for inspiration.
My eyes fall
on my cracked glass window.
I know what to write.

The cracked glass window
lies on the faded carpet floor.
It is completely covered in dust.
I creak the old door open more
and dare to look at it again.
Sun shines off of it
and the beams hit the wall.
I take one last look
and back out of the room slowly.

I look at her brilliantly bright blue
eyes and see the cracked glass
window in the reflection of them.

“I have a present,”
my great-grandmother says in a wavering voice,
a voice like the ocean tide and sand shifting in the desert.
She carefully passes a medium-sized glass window
into my soft hands.
The window is cracked.
It is far bigger
than my hands cupped together.
It reaches from me to my great-grandmother.
I look up at her with a stunned look in my eyes.
She smiles that old smile, like she knows something you don’t.
But then again maybe she does.
I do not understand why she has given me this window.

I know there is something important in the back of a dark blue truck
which has been abandoned on the side of a dead-end road.
I creep up to it slowly, as if not to frighten anything
that may be inside of it.
I peer in the window and see a small Hawaiian hula girl
stuck to the dashboard.
I slide to the back of the truck,
and squint against the darkness.
I see it in the open trunk.
A broken glass window.
I slowly reach my hands into the truck
and lift the window out.
I silently make off with it as I sprint away.

I’ve gotten new windows since then,
but I still keep the broken glass window
in my room.
Light beams off of it and makes a kaleidoscope
out of my pale blue walls.
A rainbow of colors shower my room
and make it more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.
It almost looks like what Heaven could be like.
I spin around slowly, looking at my room and then stop
and sit next to my broken glass window.
It showers me in rainbows, too.
I smile and close my eyes.

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