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Broken glass
I wonder what remains in me of friends who are now absent. Kevin, an amazing first friend, left something like a steady golden light, a sort of beacon, fitting for two child explorers of the nighttime. Casey, I suppose, would be an old leaf pressed into a book. Devin is a note tucked away in a place I won't forget, saying some such as, "Remember: you, though honest, deceive." A.J. met me with passion, with an anger greater than my thoroughly controlled own, and I imagine left behind a pair of brass knuckles. Raki, unwitting recipient of a neurotic's unhealthy friendship, remains as a shard of glass, sharp, embedded, what remains when the thin, transparent boundary between inside and out is shattered.
I had much cause to think of glass last night and tonight, after I broke into the apartment of my upstairs neighbor around three in the morning. The facts of the night do not cohere, at least not yet, so pardon me for giving little better than a list. The smoke alarm had sounded for twenty or more minutes, the apartment had filled with smoke from the oven, the lights were on, I tried knocking, my neighbor claimed to have been sleeping with ears plugged, though she was fully dressed when I poked my head through the broken window, the police were called anyway, so I should have done that anyway (though their response would have matched mine), and in the insomniac hours to follow I heard crying, then after a friend arrived laughing, from upstairs. As that friend arrived my neighbor knocked on my door to thank me, and told the friend that I had saved her life. That was an exaggeration.
What I remember most doggedly is the sensation of my foot going through the window, and a little moment of awe at my apprehension of its fragility. Even leaving the aforementioned exaggeration aside, I am confident that I did a good thing. But I feel something akin to panic when I realize that I do not know what it is, this good thing that I have done. I walked downstairs last night over a layer of broken glass, I laid awake thinking, among other things, of broken glass, and when I finally slept I dreamed of broken glass.
I had much cause to think of glass last night and tonight, after I broke into the apartment of my upstairs neighbor around three in the morning. The facts of the night do not cohere, at least not yet, so pardon me for giving little better than a list. The smoke alarm had sounded for twenty or more minutes, the apartment had filled with smoke from the oven, the lights were on, I tried knocking, my neighbor claimed to have been sleeping with ears plugged, though she was fully dressed when I poked my head through the broken window, the police were called anyway, so I should have done that anyway (though their response would have matched mine), and in the insomniac hours to follow I heard crying, then after a friend arrived laughing, from upstairs. As that friend arrived my neighbor knocked on my door to thank me, and told the friend that I had saved her life. That was an exaggeration.
What I remember most doggedly is the sensation of my foot going through the window, and a little moment of awe at my apprehension of its fragility. Even leaving the aforementioned exaggeration aside, I am confident that I did a good thing. But I feel something akin to panic when I realize that I do not know what it is, this good thing that I have done. I walked downstairs last night over a layer of broken glass, I laid awake thinking, among other things, of broken glass, and when I finally slept I dreamed of broken glass.
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