Broken shards of glass spread across the kitchen floor – jagged edges glistening, and tiny slivers hiding in shadows, evading my later attempts to make the tiles safe once more for tender feet (how quickly we imbue our human qualities of spite and craftiness into objects inanimate).
The sound crashes into my consciousness before I register what has happened, and prior to becoming aware of the pain in my foot: and the shock of breaking glass reverberates right through me, shattering the numbness I have been hiding behind.
Long seconds later, crumpled now into a heap on the floor clutching my knees, I glance at my grandmother’s ring neatly on my finger, and think of all the memory-objects I have of my mother’s. Even within the awareness that these things will return to their usual comforting presence soon enough, as I sob on the cruel-cold tiles they seem to sneer at me: reminders that both these women, so close to my heart and identity, are dead; gone, now and forever.
I can hear voices – my own loudest of all – telling me they are part of me, and they live on in my heart; they give me strength in their memories and through the times they shared joy and provided comfort. And my logic answers, ‘Yes, you speak truth: but there are other truths, and tonight the one that holds my heart in its grip is that life is fleeting and death does not knock before entering.’
Teardrops on the tiles glisten meaninglessly.