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Summer blueberries. Add the sugar. Light shines through it. My stained glass window.

No–sit on that shelf, with all the broken bits of dreams I kept for myself. A shell from the shore. A ring from the gutter. A tin of agates.

A tiny paper crane. “Write your worst fear on it, and then let it go.” Sit on top of the staircase leading nowhere, and release it into the blue sky. I kept it, along with all the dried narcissus. Inside: “Fear of getting hurt by another guy.”

You were more like the others than you know. I don’t tell all the stories that are there to be told. You didn’t read all there was to be read.

I cherish the broken dreams. “I held the memories tightly, and they cut me like glass.” Yes.

Like shattered forest mirrors. There was so much art in that forest. I found the mirror, and the frame. Bits of the mirror were wedged into the tree’s wrinkles; others lay scattered on the ground. In its reflection, my eyes were as dark as the smears beneath them.

Somehow, someway, people will express themselves. And I was haunted by their silent cries.

Other times, I laughed. The stickmen with their spears. The all-too-realistic dinosaur painted on the rock face where the forest met the wayward road. Other times, I grieved. Hallucinations, driven from darkness to darkness.

Some on the shelf have no links. There was the marbled egg of green and deep blue I found on the shore–dragon spawn, to be sure. There is the glass full of agates I found while tending my little sheep, teaching them to scour the gravel in the playground for gems. There is the chunk of melted glass (fireworks in July?) my mom gave to me. There is the giant agate I found while digging through the clay to form a garden. There is the angora embroidered with the fairy, back when I was obsessed with the nettlesome art.

These are my memories. These are my treasures. I released the glass, and the flow of blood eased, and the wound healed. But the aftermath–that scar, was mine to keep. My preservative in skin.