Saturday, December 31, 2011


I broke the window. Just a little tap and it shattered under my elbows.

I was under the porch talking to Ciera on the phone. The grass crunched under my feet. I kept moving because if I rested the damp soil would give under my feet, leaving more than a footprint. Ciera was calling me before she went to Canada.

The cement under the porch had a fine layer of moss in striated lines that perfectly echoed the boards of the deck above. Everything was wet; the northwest is wet though. I peeked my eyes out and looked at the sky, a few stars peeked out from slowly moving clouds. Deep blue on dark gray.

I looked back at the house, through the basement windows. My little cousins were playing around. Louie went to the fireplace and grabbed the poker, brandished it and walked out of the frame. To be young again, where everything is a sword and nothing is actually dangerous. I turned back to Ciera and recalled my evening.

I had gone out with my aunts and uncle and dad and cousins. We had barhopped downtown. After three bars and five drinks I was ready to go home. But trust me, I was not drunk by the time I was talking to Ciera. I really wasn't.

I kept looking in through the window. The orange yellow light faintly illuminated the damp bench outside. The lights turned off and my cousin Georgie came into the frame. He had his new headlamp, it cast the basement in a cold white light. A ray shot around on the ancient furniture and brick fireplace. I decided it would be a great way to scare George by coming up to the window and tapping on it with a scary face.

It didn't get that far. Instead, I put my elbows up to the glass and my whole body pitched forward through the glass. I did not trip and I did not force myself through the glass. The glass simply collapsed under me. It was brittle as if a bubble had burst; the illusion of solidity was shattered—as was the glass.

That was my night. I hope the title isn't too offensive.