(hands in glass are like a heart trying to let go. bare skin and sharp angles- even when you put down the shards, pry your fingers open your hands will glitter and sting like unshed tears with all you grasped honestly, nakedly, all that you can't leave behind)
my mother built this child's gravestone with (her child's gravestone with) her own two hands. she lifts the glass and places it in the mold, bending, and shifts her arms and twists her hands to let go. This is her penance, this work is not swift she plunges her hands in, looks for pieces to fit while the glass tumbles with a tinkling 'chisk' but her hands are protected by gloves.
this is the first thing I've written in months... my little sister passed away a month and a half ago. she was 14 and I can't stop screaming on the inside when I think about her