A pebble in the flowerbed, buried under a weed, flew up from the weed wacker and hit the sliding glass door. A tiny pebble–moving at just the right speed, striking at just the right spot, shattered the glass. I watched the glass ripple and break into tiny pieces. The crackling sounds were eerie. Every few minutes the cracks would ping as the break spread to the furthest edges of the door.
I put up a sign. Don’t open this door. Danger, broken glass–a reminder for myself.
This happened at home–my safe place–a place where I go and collapse on the couch, flick on the T.V. and tune out of the world and all the things that happen out there. Nothing happens here. From the couch, I look out the sliding glass door at the birds and the deer who come nibble on my plants and drink from the bird bath. They share the seeds I put out, the birds and the deer. But now that view is cracked and fuzzy, too.
© Glenda Kotchish