A glass silently sitting on the vast wooden surface. From its perspective, the brown surface went on like there’s no end to it. Undisturbed, it’s at peace with its clear body, textured only by the uneven touch of the hands that created it. Its contents, simply air.
Suddenly, it was gripped by tiny soft hands. It tingled as an orange liquid pushed the air out. It was lifted and its rim touching the soft lips of the little boy. “Aaahh”, satisfied. And the glass was washed and replaced back on the brown wooden surface.
Drizzled with droplets of water, the glass shivered a little bit. It was ready to return to its relaxed state when it was drenched with freezing cold water. Its clear frame fogged up. as soon as the water was gulped, the cold died down with it.
It was replaced back onto the wooden surface with a thud. Ouch.
Kids running around the wooden table. The glass was anxious the kids are too rowdy. It didn’t want to get knocked over.
A liquid was poured again. Bubbles formed into the liquid. Refreshing, thought the glass. As soon as it was gone, it gone cleaned off.
More liquid. More lips. Different hands. Light grip, strong grip. It got cleaned, or sometimes forgotten until the next wash. More liquid. Sometimes someone would place trash in it before it gets washed.
One day, it was silent in its peaceful state waiting for anyone to pour liquid on it. But instead, it felt itself falling into the unknown. It was scary. It was falling, falling and it couldn’t help itself. It just kept falling until it hit something and its pieces went everywhere. How? thought the glass. Trembling hands took each piece one by one. It could hear sobbing coming from someone. “It’s grandma’s” heard the glass being mumbled.
As each piece was collected, the now broken glass was brought back up onto the wooden surface. It was afraid that it’ll be sent into the darkness like where all the other broken glass went. It waited, no one was coming. No one was doing anything.
Suddenly, a gooey liquid was poured onto its sharp edges, and one by one it connected its parts. The glass waited until it could stand again. And stand it did, cracks and all. It could not hold any more liquid, but from above it stood looking down on the wooded brown surface. Its content is a single rose. It changed. But it did not become useless.
