Almost every afternoon, the boys and I go to the beach to hunt for sea glass. We stroll along the shoreline, our eyes fixed upon the sand, searching for that telltale glint of light. A smooth, green-gilled creation, tempered over time. Garbage made beautiful.
We place the glass in a large vase, right by our kitchen window. It captures the light, and grows each day.
It will be in my home for the rest of my life. My Spain–captured in small, gorgeous fragments.
Warm bread in one hand, my son’s hand in the other.
Two kisses as I enter my friend’s home.
Men singing, joyful and defiant. Crisis be damned.
I am tossed and softened, the more I am in this place. Less edgy. More forgiving.
I lay in the sun with my youngest, sometimes doing nothing but smelling his grassy, cornflower-silk head.
I care about their schooling, and their manners, and their futures. But it no longer consumes me.
I’m less uptight about time, about other people’s perceptions.
I exercise, but I no longer obsess.
But I am still glass.
I snap and shatter when the language hides, or when the afternoons twist into gnarled, splintery tedium.
I feel misunderstood, or invisible.
But time and pressure and patience works with me. Spain works with me.
Debris becomes light.