Like Glass

There are eight glass bottles in the yellow room. Before you were born, your father and I collected them as keepsakes, to recall those long warm hours alone. If it were possible to catch a thought or a glance, we would keep them inside these bottles. We would save them for you.

Bottles are suggestive. Something about the graceful curve of the neck, or the round smooth lip, or even the full, sturdy base inspires curiosity. They are sleek and harmless until broken, when they become sharp. Treacherous, even. They are colored, yet clear. They are empty save one, but they reflect sunshine like watercolor paint that is still wet.

They are peaceful.

You prefer them for different reasons. To you, they are your first contrast between blue and green. You like to take them down, one by one, and listen to them clink against each other. Afterwards, you carry them to me and wait, hoping I will blow across the round openings to imitate the sound of wind. It drums against the inside of the bottle, causing a white fog across the glass.

If you empty the milk bottle of its contents you will find smooth, purple shells that smell of the sea. You will like a conch shell, I can tell. You will hold it against your ear and listen to the ocean, letting your fingers slide across the glassy pink interior. It will remind you of these bottles.

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