Shattered Glass
Meggan LaRiviere

Sitting here surrounded by shattered glass—some colored, some clear, some shapes of arms, bodies and petals—
in and around the wooden frame of the cabinet still perfectly shaped but missing its clear glass doors that showcased
those priceless figurines bought for each anniversary, birthday, or just because I care moments. I’d smile as I walked
in the door to find the package wrapped in a decorative bag and the same red bow placed on the top (because you
knew how much I loved the color red) waiting patiently in the entry way just asking to be torn open. But the
promises of all that glass—loving me, staying faithful, being my protector—are scattered on the floor around my
feet. The wing from the ceramic bird you made because you thought of me as a bird, strong willed and always ready
to spread my wings and fly away. Who knew you would be the first one to abandon the nest? The stems and petals
of those green and yellow crystal flowers—you said that we would last until the day those flowers withered away.
They weren’t supposed to wither away. How could I know that day you went to work would be the day that you
would never return? I sit here telling myself each broken promise is room for new butterflies, kisses that leave me
breathless because they always feeling like the first. That perfectly shaped cabinet will one day fit itself back together,
but this time with a new spotlight on pieces that are whole and solid and not shattered.