Dec. 2

12/02/2025 8:27 Correspondence 105

The day the window shatters

Crack, Crash, Book. 

A thousand shards lay at my feet. They once made up how I saw the world. 

The jagged pieces take on a life of their own. They are mean and cruel and deceptive. Each one is dignified and playful and wholly unique.  

I wonder for a moment what broke my looking glass. I crawl around the debris, looking for a brick or a stone or a person or a society. I end up finding all of these things, littering the glittery floor. 

With bloody hands, I collect the brick. I think to myself that the brick can be rebuilt into something greater. And then I think harder and collect the rest and place them all in my closet. 

With the closet closet, I turn my attention back to the mess on the floor. The sun, pouring in like a broken airlock, gets caught in the dasaling jewels. I see small rainbows and freckles of light by my feet, and step carefully not to break any beams. My careful steps land hard on the many knives on the floor, but I ignore them, though, as I had been ignoring them since I heard a crash and ran barefoot into the room.

I start to grab pieces. Some large, some small, some captivating, some revolting, and place each to my eye to see how the world reflects through them. 

Youth is flashed into my eye. Ignorance and beauty. Nevity and imagination. A lack of common sense and an inability to grasp consequences. Hope.

A dangerous mosaic lies at my feet. Lies to me about the world being a simple, understandable place. 

I try to see through the pieces and see the safety of my old beliefs.

Glass, once broken, can never be truly rebuilt. The shards are too many and too much. Some will be lost forever as particles under beds. Some will be found and deemed too impractical to wield.  

I can take pieces, though. 

I can pass them through the dyes of the world. dyes of education and culture, and community. Dyes of literature and conversation Dyes of death and love and growth. Dyes of reflection - those get a reflective silver finish. 

I grab what is salvageable and what I believe is healthy, and I help them grow. 

I finished placing the components, and the room is empty again. rattling on downstairs as I hope my handywork is okay. As I hope the leadlight window fills the room with new, beautiful colors. New dynamic dances of light on the walls and comfy chairs. Able to morph with the setting sun. I hope and hope that it's enough.

And it's this way for an hour or maybe years until the next. 

Crack, Crash, Boom.  

Sleep well,

Calvin Landreth