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A deep blue gleam in the pavement caught my eye. I pocketed the piece of glass, drawing it out occasionally to rub it between my fingers. It was a mixture of smooth waves and sharp edges.

The pastor says we are like bits of broken glass and clay that we cannot put back together again. The cynical side of my mind takes over, honed by discussions at the edge of a soccer field; sharp and cutting deep until I left, crying.

I swipe at my eyes. Get most of the moisture out, and the rest will dry. There are no pockets in my skirt, light against my knees. Perhaps an enchantress cursed a girl’s tears to glass as they fell. She gathered up all she could, but this bit of deep blue was left behind.

The pastor asks those who want prayer to hold their hands high in everyone’s sight. I do not want a multitude of hands covering my shoulders. I do not want to hear their hum of voices rolling one over the other. Someone will just have to find the pieces and pick them up. Perhaps someone already did. Each of my tears will gleam in His bottles, prisms in the night.