Broken

The glass that sat on the counter was recently cleaned. Polished beyond compare. Funnily enough, because it would never be used again. It was, or had been, a perfect, clear glass cup. Nothing particularly special but certainly something used everyday. Maybe multiple times a day. Even the nicest glasses in the china cabinet had a thumbprint on their rim, or a fleck of dirt on the stem of a wine glass. The glass on the counter was spotless. One could almost say flawless…

Of course the glass was not flawless. One little, tiny chip sat on its rim. It had been the result of a too vigorous washing. The chip was ever so small yet ever so sharp. And for some reason that imperfect balance meant that no one had decided whether it should be discarded or kept so that the collection was not ruined. Just that morning, even after the chip, the glass had been filled with a delightful mixture of apple juice and sparkling water. And the small accident that led to a lip being cut made sure that the glass would not be returned to the cupboard today.

Instead it stood alone, perched on the counter. One drop of the concoction sat undisturbed at the very bottom and that was all that was left of the mess. The lipstick stain had been removed, fingerprints wiped away and that small speck of blood had vanished as well. It was as if the glass had never been used. It's history had been erased. It's memories turned to ghosts.

The debate regarding what to do with the broken cup was filling the house. It wasn’t heated, but everyone was talking over one another, as families tend to do.  The son wanted to just break it some more, the daughter wanted to try and fix it, the mother wanted to keep it but not use it and the father wanted to throw it out. And after the children’s ideas were quickly turned down, the two ran out of the room so the two adults could finish the idle and nearly pointless discussion that revolved around that little glass. 

Honestly, the cup had cost minimal amount and was a simple shape. If the mother hadn’t been so insistent that they needed an even number in the set, the thing would’ve been thrown out right away. It was not to blame for the chip – the father was- but nonetheless it was now almost useless in the eyes of the family. But still that glass sat on that counter, under the bright light that showed off its spotless glow.

Pounding footsteps alerted that the little boy was running downstairs once more. One step that rattled the whole house, and then shirt brushing against glass…and then that high pitched shattering of glass hitting floor resounded. Glistening shards scattered across the floor, flying in all directions with its points ready to strike. That one drop of juice at the bottom was lost now. Dust quickly settled on each formerly clean piece.

And as the parents were picking up the broken bits of glass, the mother accidently gripped one too firmly and she received a tiny cut on her hand, to match the thin cut on her lip.