I fill my home with glass and china. Italian glass graces the living room; pottery sits in the middle of the dining table; my mother’s crimson crystal cornucopia with its broken foot stands on a shelf below a hand-blown bowl. Shelves in the breakfast nook hold fragile angels and Limoges soup cups. High in a corner rests the two-faced cookie jar from my childhood home. Little crystal pots scattered throughout my bedroom hold rings, hair jewelry, and broken bracelets.
I sit amidst the shimmering pieces, and feel at one with the vulnerability of it all.