She caught my hand back.
I realized then that I had been about to grasp the jagged brittle shards.
Her hand was warm, very strong. Its strength startled me, for my hands
held the strength of years of my work, my wrists were sturdy and strong,
too, and I had not thought she could enclose my hand in hers and hold it immobile.
I tugged stubbornly to get free. She must think me insane. My eyes were
yet upon the glittering glass, glittering in the sun though the old panes
and pieces had been dusty and streaked and now the spikes were too,
dusty, streaked white in the glancing light but the sunlight was so bright
here that they flashed hot blinding light into my eyes and dashed the
spectrum's colors across my lids.
We were out beyond the summerhouse. There was a lattice with the
shriveled remains of a vine. There were old pieces of glass.
I had stood staring down at them for an unknown time and then had
begun to smash them.
Smash and smash them.
Harder and harder as the sounds of breaking glass slashed the silence of
the warm late morning and destroyed it.