Stars on Our Hearts

6

I rub the sleep from my eyes as I yank the old covers off my bed, bundling them up and leaving them on the floor. I've decided that Tuesdays are Chores Day. No matter how tired we are, or how tidy the house already is, Mother and I must clean something in the house. I yawn, running my hands through my uncombed hair. Down the hall, I can hear my mother poking around in her own room, shuffling around and opening drawers.
I listen to the sound of the town outside as I gather my dirty clothes. The town is slowly returning to its "regular" business; people run groceries, read newspapers, and meet with friends, all while tiptoeing around patrol officers. I hear the chatter of Polish teenagers outside my small bedroom window. Ma and I have decided to no longer venture outside our house, unless absolutely necessary. So, no more pointless walks for me.
I carefully carry my laundry down the our old wooden stairs, each step creaking and moaning under my weight. Mother has seemingly teleported to the living room, carefully dusting the picture frames on the mantle. The worried, focused look on her face tells me she doesn't wish to be bothered. I leave her be.
In the the cold, dark foyer, I lazily shove my things into the laundry chute, my shoulders aching. My birthday was two months ago, and yet I already feel a thousand years old. Worn and run down. I stretch, rubbing at my face to energize myself. My hands are clammy and cold, and my heart is beating out of my chest. Despite the lack of activity, anxiety has me rattled and shaking all morning. I can't focus. I pace out of the foyer into the living room, where Mother has left into the kitchen.

Stale morning light leaks through the tears in the sheets covering the windows. I sigh, flopping down on the couch as I gaze out the open window, taking a break. Mother has taken down the old sheet I put up, for what reasons I'm unsure of. Cool morning draft sweeps into the room, bringing the smell of the outside with it. Dust, and smoke from I assume a factory nearby. Someone next door is cooking beef, I think.
The sound of dinner plates clanking startles me back to reality. Mother rearranges the surviving china from the cabinets, gently taking out and dusting the older bottles. I watch her gingerly lift up a short glass with the tips of her fingers. It's dusty, yet the crystallized pattern in the glass refracts the daylight, giving it a diamond-like glow. Ma studies it for a while, her face solid and unmoving. It's a glass that's been in there as long as I can remember. Mother and Father never used it, as far as I'm aware. I always assumed that it was simply too nice for water or beer; it needed the finest wine for the most special occasion.
My mother holds the glass in her hands, remembering a past I never knew. I furrow my eyebrows, watching her from the living room. She hasn't stopped moving around all day, up until now. Tense, I sit forward.
"Ma? You alright?" She blinks, considering it for a moment, then turns to the kitchen sink and smashes the glass to pieces.
"Hell, Ma!"  I leap off the couch, rushing to her side. I tiptoe around to avoid the pieces on the floor to get to her, the smaller bits of glass crunching under the soles of my shoes. I grab her hands, searching for cuts. Bits and pieces of glass are sprinkled across the floor and countertop like sand. Inside the sink, what was left of the short glass is large, thick shards, it's beautiful design now destroyed. I let out an exasperated sigh.

"Ma..."
Mother studies her hands, perfect and unharmed, as if they were covered in blood. I firmly hold on to them, refusing to break eye contact.
"Mother, look at me. Why would you do that?"
"It was your father's glass."
I swallow, trying to find the words. We haven't mentioned him in days, so long I assumed we weren't going to speak of him at all. Mother shakes her head. "He would use it at our parties, back when we threw parties." She smiles, but there's no happiness in her eyes. "Before you were born."
I can't imagine Father at a party, much less throwing one. Pa, stern faced and irritated, shouting and joking, pouring beer and laughing with friends and family. I can see him complaining about the noise, but no, not creating it. Thinking about him now, a prick of fear and grief strikes my heart, and my breath shudders. A thought shoves its way into my conscience, shaking my core. Will there be a time, where I forget my father's face? The sound of his voice?

Mother pulls away, gently putting a hand on my cheek.
"I'll clean the mess, my dear."
I shake my head, now unable to focus on her face. I swallow again, looking past her towards the window in the living room.
"No, that's alright, I'll..." I shake my head, struggling to keep my voice composed. I can't be like this, not around her. Not now, when she needs me to be strong. When Father needs me to be strong.
"I'll clean up the glass. You work on upstairs." Mother doesn't protest. She delicately lays a hand on my shoulder, her palm shaking, before stepping over the puddle of shards and disappearing around the corner. The sound of her footsteps up the stairs echo around the house. I don't move, standing in the middle of the pieces as I squeeze my eyes shut. The image of Father is seared into my mind, but all I can see now is that look on his eyes, the day he had left. The fear.
When I open my eyes, my breathing slows, and I feel as though my heart nearly stops. Father disappears completely. The smells, the wind, the pain in my back, all disappear. I reach into the sink, grabbing the largest shard and holding it up to the light. A hazy rainbow glow surrounds the sharp, broken edges, the ends asymmetrical and irregular. I turn the piece around in my hand, watching how the light bends into the glass's crystal pattern.
I press my fingertips against the edge of the shard. The surface begins to reflect a tinted red light; sleek, brilliant red blood runs down the glass and on my fingers, dripping into the kitchen sink. I stare, mesmerized by the color. The indistinct sound of laughter, drinking, and chatter- like circus music- fill my head. Pa's voice is the loudest, telling a joke I never got to hear.