The glass exploded. One just like the one pictured there, on the windowsill.
It didn’t “break.” It didn’t “shatter.”
I could not believe how much glass was in that glass.
It was everywhere – inside and under the dishwasher I had just taken it out of, under the fridge across the floor, into the living room and the breezeway.
Tiny shards of it in my fingers and the meat of my hand.
I had just taken it out of the dishwasher, and accidentally tapped it – just tapped it -on the underside of the Bulgarian-installed quartz countertop.
Rational minded me instantly assumed that I had chanced upon the perfect point on the glass that was scratched or hairline cracked or otherwise weakened just enough to cause some sort of scientifically explainable reaction.
I had to vacuum the inside of the dishwasher along with the kitchen and breezeway floors, missing a church service I wanted to attend, because it was unsafe for my daughter or Sophie the cat to walk through the kitchen until I was sure it was shard-free.
Earlier that morning, the relatively new television started acting weird, too, providing sound but no picture – just an odd sort of lavender glow.
Turns out I had connected the HDMI cables in the wrong inputs after switching out the DVR for a no-charge simple cable box (which still makes me mad – that even though I get internet service from this provider and I could watch TV via internet only, they still make me have a box and their salesperson was unable to give a technical reason why – grrrr.)
Then the shelf on the new hutch on my new desk half-collapsed – one of the pegs that holds it up just suddenly fell out.
What’s going on?
There was nothing significant about the date that I could remember. I don’t remember what I was thinking about, other than considering giving up on my book, and missing Mike, and feeling a little lost about my future, when the glass exploded.
After I got the glass cleaned up and the shelf fixed, I spent a lot of time trying to complete an online job application, and just as I was finishing it, my computer spontaneously shut down.
Just turned itself off.
Wind? Was there a power surge and the strip cut the power? But the lights on all the other chargers plugged in to the strip were still on.
These past few days, every time I veer in the direction of giving up on my notions of writing, speaking and singing, something interrupts, or switches off, or falls apart, or explodes.
It doesn’t feel like encouragement.
It feels like menace.
I wake up in the middle of the night in a sweaty panic, wondering what the hell I’m doing and what could happen, all the bad stuff that could happen, in my capacity as a professional-class worst-case-scenario OCD worrier.
My heart races. I cringe and writhe, remembering long-ago embarrassments, mistakes, and failures, imagining they will all happen again now, and be much worse. I read nonsense on my phone for two hours to try to calm down and go back to sleep.
And then, today: a sparkling bright, perfect winter day. No extremes. Just a spotless blue sky, sunshine and fresh snow on the ground.
One day of calm, after the vortex, and the ice, and the wind and the windblown snow.
The house has stopped creaking and snapping and kerpowing, now that the temperature has moderated, but I predict a spate of “giant potholes that ate Chicago” blog posts and news stories, come spring, because of the insane temperature swings we’ve had. A thaw-and-freeze cycle that cracked steel holding up Lake Shore Drive is surely causing concrete and asphalt pavement to crack and crumble all over the area.
Old Sophie caught a mouse last night, and lovingly left it’s gnawed corpse as an offering in the middle of the library rug. She’s still got it, the old girl. I just wish she wouldn’t flaunt it in the middle of the library rug.
But we’re gaining daylight – the sun is up when I rise, now, and I can still contemplate a walk in the late afternoon.
It’s too soon to say we’ve turned a corner – March is yet to come, all lion and lamb, and it always, always snows one more time in April.
Waiting for the clock to run out on the agents who have my query and trying to screw up the courage to start another round instead of giving up, I remain,
Your anxious, worried, but like the backyard rabbit who survived the vortex by hiding under the deck, as yet unconquered by winter extremes and associated all-night-vigils,