on cleaning up
This full-length mirror was found in a very old home at least 60 years ago, so no one knows how old it was. The frame is solid walnut maybe, nailed together in a sturdy, foreign way. The darkening, thick glass weighs at least 50 pounds.
My 1 year old puts his mouth to it and gives himself kisses. He is drawn, too. I turn my back, and it shatters in an upward explosion. As I turn, I scream out motherfear and scoop him up from the pile of tiny knives. I don’t know how it doesn’t crush him. My bed is covered in glitter – the pile of unfolded clothes, glitter.
I have taken my turn with secret sin. I’ve mulled over and over the nag, the lie, the shame in perpetuation, the backward transformation starting with carelessness – thinking I have a need for, and then ignoring, the deathtrap that leans against the bedroom wall.
So when the shattering comes, and it does, is it any wonder that it falls like razor blades, and the cleaning up has to be intentional and painful? Is it any wonder that it falls so hard that it wakes me on the inside and I see what a mess I’ve made, and how deeply it could hurt my children?
Now, a day later and then a month, I continue to stand in every perspective of light to see it all exposed so it won’t bury in – because a mother sees the glass lying there and sweeps a clean path for her children.