An Heirloom

Your mother’s glass. The only one in the cabinet that does not match the others. It’s beautiful. Purple crystal scattered on linoleum like a layer of fine mauve dust. The first tear falls from a thousand fractaled faces, glistening in the sun. Birds turn dirges in the late autumn air, as you push slivers into the dustpan—the vision of her soft hand around the glass fades with each reluctant sweep. Tears pool in your eyes and you wonder why she gave you such maladroit arms, sunspotted and shaky. Or a brain wired to prefer the taste of Diet Coke in a glass over ice, just as your mother did. Shards clink in the trash, your tears race them to the bottom. The lid closes in a soft thud—the birds stop singing