Fire. That’s what she remembered of her birth. Intense heat and a languid, liquid fluidity. She had no beginning and no end then, but was one with a larger molten entity. It hurt to be pulled out and thrust into a blue-hot flame. The steel table felt cold after the warmth of the fire. The real shock came later, when she hung over a rod, where she was scored and shaped further with something like a large tweezers. Ow!
As she was being blown and molded, she became aware of humans standing around, transfixed. They admired the glassblower’s handiwork but also her. She realized her ancestors had gone through a similar process and that she probably looked a great deal like them. Maybe she’d meet them when she was fully realized. She felt important, as if she were responsible for carrying on a tradition.
She could put up with a bit of discomfort for the sake of a legacy, she decided. She preened and gleamed for the onlookers.
Her new form took getting used to but she managed. She was tiny, not even two inches and made to look, or so the others informed her, like a bit of wrapped candy with a flounce on each end. She enjoyed being displayed but had to fight against jealousy. Other glass objects were larger or more gaudily colored. Sometimes they left the display cases and never returned. How she wanted to travel. Someday, promised her friend, a turquoise glass candy born on the same day.
One day, a woman came into the shop with a tall and darkly handsome man. She fingered the delicate lace handkerchiefs and glanced at the drawings of canals and boats, then stopped at the glass display. “Oh,” she breathed softly as she picked up the hand-made green glass. “How beautiful.”
“Get two,” the man suggested. “That way, they won’t get lonely.”
She laughed and picked up the turquoise piece. Elated, the green glass twinkled and sparkled as the shopkeeper carefully wrapped up the two glass candies. They would travel! To her dismay, though, they were placed inside a dark pocket inside a valise.
“Where are we?” asked the green glass.
“Sleep,” her friend advised.
Sometime later, they came to their new home. She and her friend were given a place of honor on a shelf in a sunny atrium window that overlooked a garden. There she remained for more than twenty years, through all the seasons. Other pieces came and went. Some stayed, like the nubby brightly colored pitcher from Barcelona and the small golden vase someone informed her was Steuben glass. She and her friend were among their peers.
Most significant, the glass candy pleased the woman, who seemed lonely after the handsome man went away. The woman would often stop to gaze upon the green and blue pieces as she absentmindedly rearranged the objects on the shelf. Sometimes she’d finger the intricate folds of glass that look like the ends of a candy wrapper.
“You are so pretty,” she’d murmur to the pieces, her voice tinged with sorrow.
One day, a new man appeared. The green glass candy studied his face as he passed by the bay window; he never looked at any of the objects on the shelf. For a while, the woman laughed and sang and seemed happy, which made the green glass candy happy,
“I think our lives are lovely,” she told her turquoise friend.
“I think our lives are about to change,” he retorted. “And not for the best.”
* * *
“How are you coming along?” Ralph’s voice betrayed none of the irritation he’d expressed during an earlier argument. No wonder. He probably thought he’d won.
“Great,” I called back, trying to sound, if not cheerful then at least neutral. Moving is stressful, I reminded myself.
We’d started out the day companionably enough, making lists and reviewing chores over coffee and fresh bagels he’d bought. Thoughts came to me in little pieces: It’s just a house. He’s lived here a year. It’s time. We’ll be fine.
Three hours into packing, I’d come into the spare bedroom to find him rummaging through the dresser. My bookshelf had been emptied.
“What are you doing? Where are all my books?”
He looked up, all blue-eyed innocence.
“To answer your first question, I’m sorting and packing this room, as we agreed. As to the second, your books are over there.” He pointed several boxes labeled “disposable” in which the books had been unceremoniously tossed.
When we’d first committed to moving in together, I nevertheless quizzed him regularly about the decision. I’d long been a widow and felt ready to move on. He was newly out of an old relationship and I didn’t want him to feel pressured to take a hasty step.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” I asked one morning.
He took me in his arms. “I love you and you love me.
“So, no doubt?”
“None at all,” he replied with certainty.
Now this certain man had piled my books into an indifferent heap with other throwaway items.
“But that’s the first Kurt Vonnegut I ever read!” I protested. “And you’re getting rid of my complete set of John D. MacDonald books? That collection has to be worth something. My mother loved the series,” I added for extra emphasis.
“Not throwing away, donating. Or we can sell them on eBay. They’re mostly paperbacks. We both use Kindle. Thus, the pile of books.”
“You might have consulted me first.” I hated my petulant tone. Did the move bring that out in me or did Ralph?
“Claire, if I have to consult you about every little thing in every room, we’ll never finish. We really do need to pick up the pace.” Ralph was in professorial mode, his words tinged with condescension, as if he were dealing with a particularly difficult student. He turned back to the dresser, pulled out a drawer and emptied it onto the bed. “You have a lot to go through,” he remarked with an extravagant sigh.
“Fine, I’ll get to it.”
I left him to his business and stomped down the stairs. It’s just stuff, I reminded myself, brushing away a few errant tears. Ralph had left his house with little beyond the clothes he wore, or so it seemed to me. He was already in transition. Whereas I was mired in the past.
I made my way into the kitchen, which opened onto a pleasant seating area, what the realtors call a family room. This part of the house never failed to cheer me, with its granite counters, pine cabinets, oversized spice rack, and hanging copper pots. During the day, light flooded the space, entering through five windows on three sides. Over the sink, an atrium style opening hung out over the back porch. On each of its three shelves I’d placed an eclectic assortment of colored glass objects.
A few months after my husband died, I moved everything into that room: computer, books, even bedding. My first winter as a widow found me in front of the fireplace with a hunk of sourdough in one hand, a glass of wine in the other. Gradually, the panic that had taken hold of me when he died receded, replaced by a feeling of well-being. I’d fall asleep in one of the overstuffed green corduroy chairs and wake up to twinkling colored glass throwing rainbows against the pale peach wall.
I plucked some of the items off the shelf. Not everything held meaning. Even I had to admit we had no need for three colored martini glasses. I put them to one side. The Steuben glass we’d keep, along with the decanter. It had monetary value, something Ralph appreciated.
Then I reached for the tiny green rectangle, hand-blown in Venice. No more than an inch or two long, it had been exquisitely molded to resemble a candy wrapped in foil, the ends gaily twisted and flounced. I fingered it idly, running my finger along the smooth glass, thinking of gondolas gliding along canals in the company of a handsome man with whom I had the good fortune to be married.
“I hope you’re not keeping that.”
Startled, I protectively closed my hand around the piece. It felt warm to the touch.
I turned to face Ralph. “Why not? It’s not like it takes up any room.”
I tried to sound amused but something in my expression caught him off guard. He spoke again with the pseudo-reasonable tone I found grating.
“It’s another thing, Claire. I thought we agreed to pare down our possessions, to take as little as possible. Out with the old, in with the new, that was the idea.”
His arms filled with books, his jaw set, and his feet planted, Ralph appeared not so much certain as intractable. How did I not recognize this? Had I tired of widowhood too soon? Had I rushed into a relationship with someone whose assured approach masked his inability or unwillingness to yield on any matter? My decision hadn’t been made in haste; at least I didn’t think so. Yet here I was among the packing boxes questioning our plan for a bright new start-over future in a new town.
The glass grew warmer, but not uncomfortably so. It was as if I held a spark of something in my hand—courage perhaps or insight?
“It means something to me.”
“For God’s sake, it’s just a piece of—”
“Stop,” I held up my free hand in front of me like a traffic cop. “I’ve just told you it’s important to me. When you’re ready to listen, I’ll tell you why.”
I took a deep breath and continued, calmly, reasonably and with great certainty: “Memories aren’t disposable, Ralph. Not everything can be tossed out. If you can’t accept that, we have a problem that’s a lot bigger than a tiny piece of glass.”
In the silence, the little green glass candy pulsed in my palm.
Ralph looked down at his feet. “I need some air,” he said and left the house.
* * *
Safe within the woman’s palm, the green glass candy thought about the argument. She felt not triumphant but sad. Two people were unhappy, and she’d become a symbol of their divide. The knowledge came with a sense of obligation. She needed to do something. But what?
She looked around for the turquoise piece that had traveled with her from Venice. They’d been together for more than two decades, sitting in that warm sunny window along with other favored objects. Now, the woman prepared to move forward with a new life and a new partner, someone who had a blind spot where the woman’s memories were concerned.
Where are you, friend? the little green piece wondered just as the woman looked down into her hand and asked, “Where is your friend?”
They both scanned the shelves. Misplaced? Dropped? The pieces were hearty, unlikely to shatter. The candy glass tried to think positive thoughts.
“Claire?” The man had returned. He entered the kitchen and held out his hand. “I’m not sure how this got in my pocket.” He opened his fingers to reveal the turquoise candy glass glittering against his palm. The woman sighed with relief. The green glass thought she detected a sound like a chuckle.
“It’s warm,” the man said, staring at the blue object before lifting his gaze to the woman. “And I know this will sound crazy, but when I touched it, I had … I don’t know, a vision. I saw two people in a gift shop. Broken Italian, laughter, pretty glass objects on display. You were there and so was—” He stopped and looked at the object he held. “You and Tom honeymooned in Venice. That’s where you bought this piece and the one you’re holding.”
“Yes,” the woman whispered. She placed the green glass candy in his palm so it sat next it next to the turquoise one in his palm.
“No wonder you wanted to keep them.” The man sank to the floor and buried his head in his hands. “I’ve been an idiot, marching through your house like a goddam bull in a china shop, telling you which memories to keep and which ones to throw away. You must think I’m an ass.”
The woman sat next to him. She gently retrieved both candy glass pieces and put them on the counter. Then she placed her hands on the man’s face and looked into his eyes. “I think we’re both feeling threatened by our pasts,” she said.
They continued to talk, their voices low.
Phew. Couldn’t breathe in there, the turquoise candy glass griped. His friend noted the pride in his thoughts.
Teleporting? she queried. When did you learn to do that?
When you’ve moved from liquid to solid once, the rest becomes easy.
The green glass candy giggled. And telepathy? You managed to transport a memory from one mind into another.
Oh, I’ve got a few tricks under wraps.
Funny candy, she shot back at him, but her thoughts were tinged with affection.
Where to now? he asked her.
I don’t know, but we’ll go together, she responded. And it’ll be a happy place.
And it was.
