A Mosaic of Shattered Glass

4

"How do I find love," I ask my mother

"Love is not found, it is grown my child"

"How is it planted," I ask my mother

"The seeds of love can be as pure as kindness or as common as infatuation, my child"

"Where is it planted," I ask my mother

"It is firmly rooted in communication and trust, my child"

"How is it watered," I ask my mother

"It is watered with simple gifts, kind words, soft touches, small services, and quality time, my child"

"What light feeds it," I ask my mother

"The pure light of selflessness, my child"

"What does it bear," I ask my mother

"It bears three things, my child, three simple things"

"It bears thorns of honesty, my child, which brings the pain of truths that are bitter but necessary"

"It bears a poison of vulnerability, my child, which makes you weak and susceptible to harm"

"And finally it bears the fruit of togetherness, my child, with a taste one would die for"

"What does togetherness taste like," I ask my mother

"Joy, my child"

"Unfiltered"

"Unbridled"

"Unmolested"

"Unfathomable"

-How do I find love, by Tiffany Fletcher

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   I punched out at the department store where I worked and made my way to the rail station. I stepped aboard the train when it arrived, and took a seat. I looked out the window at the bone off-white city scape as the daylights began to dim. Night would come soon.

   Tiffany's mother had told me that, once, the trains and rails had been made of metal. But, as things fell into disrepair, it eventually became cheaper to grow a new train out of tubeflesh and new rail pieces out of ossamort. "The train is alive," she said, "it's important to treat it nicely."

   She would say this about all appliances, she still does sometimes. And yes, I know it's stupid to softly pet a blender after it makes your smoothie. I know it has no sense of touch, I know it has less neurons than a gut worm, I know these things.

   But, it's alive. It's a living thing with blood and bone. Put your ear to it's ossamort hull while it's plugged in and you'll hear the nu-fluid coursing through it. A heartbeat. How can I treat a living thing with anything less than utmost kindness.

   I put my ear to the inside wall of the train for this reason. To hear it's thumping heartbeat. "Thank you," I whispered as we reached my stop. I always thanked the train.

   It had no ears to hear. It had no brain to understand the words. I always thanked the train anyway.

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   I awoke the next morning on the sofa. I had let the patchwork woman take the bed that first night last week, but the next night she insisted that I take it and she sleep on the sofa. And so had come a dancing cycle of whose turn it was to sleep where.