When a glass slips out of our hand as we pivot from counter top to table top, many feet above the heartless tile floor that’s having none of our split seconds prayers for relief, and shatters with the force of a thousand armies attacking in unison during a single solitary moment of unbridled aggression, we cringe first at the sharpness of the sound created by the force of one blunt object meeting another colder, immovable one.
There’s an unforgiving shrillness to the music of such a tragedy, a ringing that lingers as we scramble to pick up the pieces scattered frantically into every available corner and crevice, retreating from the front line, seeking shelter far from the epicenter.
There’s no sweeping up all of the tiny broken pieces in a marriage but the sound, however faint its din has gotten over the years, still echos during the quieter periods, when we’re locked inside our own heads, when darkness chases away even the shadows from the battlefield. And there’s much work to be done to ensure steps may once again be taken without feet become bloodied, scabbed-over and too tender to the touch.
