writings: It gets sunny, I get a crush, tragic love and such
The Glass Angel
I was going through some old letters, and came across my only picture of my grandfather. It stirred up some old feelings, and I wrote this to try and convey my emotions with.
A young child stares up onto the mantle of the brick fireplace, eyes fixed intently at the glass angel. It was such a beautiful thing, its alluring rays shining down upon her face. The little girl's eyes widened in awe, raising her small arms outwards. The embodiment of the angel was a pure blue, its being entirely without fault. The child was infatuated with its beauty, too small to reach it, yet she attempted to reach higher grounding, so that she may stare at the angel from eye to eye.
Holding her muscles in poise, graceful position, clinging to the mantle, she etches its visage into her memories. Inside the angel, lie memories. Her memories long forgotten. She sees her hero, a man with a strong presence, wisdom engraved into his age. He holds her small hand, sheltering her from any harm; the child is content with her grandfather. The child's father begins to notice an irritation in the grandfather's eyes. He makes no mention of it, and lets his daughter carry on in happiness.
Still looking within the fragment of memories, she sees the two of them spending hours together, at the antique shop she always hated, but would go anyways, to be with him. Surprising her, one day he bought her a delicate sash, a vibrant color of pinks, yellows, and blues blended into the opaque fabric. With pride, she placed it in her hair to keep it in place. Next, she remembers planning her day with her grandfather. Both would rise early in the morning, and take a long car trip, not knowing where it would lead them, but the time spent was deeply cherished.
The girl suddenly grabbed for the glass angel, developing a special attachment to it, wishing to embrace it in her small hands. Her footing breaks loose, and the glass figurine quickly slips from her hands onto the floor. The glass angel was shattered in pieces. Her heart skips a beat as she falls onto her hands and knees in a poor attempt to put it back together. In doing so, the broken angel showed the child new memories. New truth.
Her grandfather was leaving for the antique shop again, she went racing out of her room to join him, however her grandfather told her sternly to go back to her room. Her smiling face was replaced with confusion, her shoulders sagged, and she turned quietly. His visits became less frequent. From months, to half months, to years, and more years. There were no longer any pleasant car rides, no visit to the antique stores, only a mere passing of glances.
She was nevertheless happy for his arrival, although infrequent. Eager for a rare arrival, upon answering the door, she asked, "Where has my grandfather gone?" Expecting an answer, she was deliberately ignored.
Years passed, and this little girl grew older. The young lady walks inside her home to find her father crying. Her grandfather was dead. Her heart should be sad, sad enough to console her own father. With a poor attempt at doing so, no tears could come to mourn the death of her grandfather.
The young lady stares at the broken angel. For years, she has tried to pick up the mess she has made, but the pieces were too sharp to put back together. She drew a breath, a tear slipped from her eye, as she harshly rubbed it off. She whispered softly to the broken angel, "Did you ever, truly love me?" No reply came from the angel. Knowing that her questions would always go unanswered, she sighed and said, "Then I pray we meet in heaven, where you can greet me with a smile and open arms and say, 'Welcome Home'."
© Blair Greenwood, Literary Magazine of the FMHS 2006