I am terrified of inadvertently causing harm. I believe I got it from my mother.
When I put up the Hebrew house blessing my daughter brought from Israel, I knew it wasn’t totally secure. I have mixed feelings about it. I love the image and the blessing. But it would raise questions. Are you Jewish? No. My daughter is. Oh, she converted? Yes. For a man? Do you really want to hear the story? Well, I am not going to tell it right now to you, stranger standing in my hallway.
But I thought I should put it up. It means something to both of us.
The sticky tape was supposed to at least hold a few pounds and the print was light.
Not light enough.
The print frame met its fate sometime between 3 – 8pm, all alone without a cell phone to call for help.
The glass shattered. I am both relieved and saddened.
What to do with large pieces of broken glass. A weapon in the wrong hands. At the very least an accident waiting to happen kicking in my terror of inadvertent harm.
I imagine an innocent garbage person (maybe there are garbage women so I don’t want to be sexist here) grabbing the concealed weapon and severing his/her/their thumb or possibly a whole hand. Blood everywhere and never to work again. And, it is all my fault.
I flash back 65 years. My mom in the kitchen tight mouth in deep focus, wrapping a broken vase in layers upon layers of newspaper. Meticulously securing the paper with string. Shoving the papered object into a double paper bag. And in large letters a love note to garbage people everywhere.
CAUTION.
BROKEN GLASS
I got to wondering if this was normal. So, I asked my daughter what she does with broken glass.
“I put it in a gazillion paper bags and put a note on it and leave it near the garbage. I don’t know what is best practice. I’ve never seen anyone be as careful about it as me, so I figured I was doing alright.”
It might be a family trait.
If not pathological, this approach is at least considerate. My mom was considerate. But it came with fear, came with catastrophe and doom. That fear of doing harm. I suppose that is okay. But it is a bottomless pit.
There is NO amount of wrapping that will soothe my soul. So, I wrap the jagged pieces in paper, stuff it in with other garbage and surround it with 4 plastic bags feeling guilty for all the plastic I was adding to the land fill. No note. Times have changed and I don’t think garbage people pick up the bags anymore, at least not from my apartment complex. It goes into a huge bin and the bin goes somewhere. I don’t know. I am rationalizing.
Maybe I should have left a note. Ahhh, but no one reads anymore.
It is out of my hands now.
Sometimes it a slow, twisting, torturous process, as was beautifully illustrated in this anguished piece. Ah, but what a relief to finally come to the realization that it's no longer in your hands. I felt relieved anyway, and I hope the narrator was able to let go as well.
ReplyDeleteI laughed at "no one reads anymore," in fact, the whole piece made me smile. But there's also the undercurrent of fear, the fear of harming someone, anyone, a stranger, that maybe the narrator doesn't deserve to be in the world, that's she's potentially dangerous. [And by the way, I've also left notes for garbage men about broken glass. In NYC men (always men!) actually pick up the plastic bags and throw them in the trucks]
ReplyDeleteI really liked this piece, where everything seems to go deeper than the obvious. And then there's the funny bits: e.g. "Want to hear the story? Well, I'm not going to tell it right now..." and "It goes into a huge bin and the bin goes somewhere." Strong confidant writing!
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