Le Verre est Tombé
Today I broke glass in the kitchen.
A wine bottle used as a flower vase for a single white gerbera given out for free by the market yesterday. I’m easily distracted, busying myself with dishes and refilling the hot water kettle when BAM it hit the tile floor. Caffeine clumsy hands, crashing without a crescendo, green glass broken, water spilled into content shaped puddles. The daisy stem split, flower beheaded amidst shards and slippery mess.
Put on shoes.
Find absorbent material.
Make it right again.
The vacuum hummed and bit as tiny pieces danced with dust.
Once sixteen as an au pair in Paris, a hot summer sweat. I made mac and cheese brought as a treat from the U.S.A eaten with smiles in see through glass bowls. It was a community kitchen. The three year old with bright red hair, chubby slippery fingers and a creshendoless clash. Left to my own devices and barefoot babies, limited french I picked the three kids up one by one, carrying them to an island of safety to protect their toes.
Finding another resident I formulated my French carefully not knowing is glass is masculin or feminine:
“La verre a tombée!”
Improper grammar likely, the glass has fallen!
There is a mess to be made new. Finding a broom and wiping my brow, careful to pick up every last piece. To learn patience, living here in France.
Fast forward and I’m here again. Holding the broken pieces of what once whole. A vessel for a flower, wine once sipped in the company of friends. Now in the poubelle, teaching me patience, poured out on the kitchen floor. Forgiven and flimsy. The crash of grace making me up again.
March 21 2018