I found her at a second-hand shop.  It was a shop I frequented back when my daughter was a baby.  I remember seeing the Spanish guitarist on the shelf, turning it over to find the price (it wasn’t very expensive), and placing it back on the shelf.  I don’t know why I hesitated, but I left the store with some other items.

It was after I had driven all the way home, I was seized with the thought I had to have it!  I needed particularly to get it for my daughter (why I don’t know).  I got back into the car.  Was there time?  Would the store be closed when I got there?  They close early on Sunday.  Would the Spanish guitarist still be there?  (Suddenly she had become a rare and coveted item, every shopper eyeing her and calculating their purchase.)

Well, you know the ending.  There she is.  My daughter never played with her, of course.  It’s not a thing you play with, and I don’t think my daughter ever even expressed the slenderest interest in the little figurine.  I’ve drawn her lots of times.  She represents my obsessions — though she has something to do with being a mother.  She’s my childhood sought, not my daughter’s.  And I heard her smooth, shiny, crystaline, glass music from afar.


3 thoughts on “Glass Music

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