Mya Guarnieri

 

Shards

I.
There was a whole year I couldn't stop buying light bulbs. I don't know why. Every time I went to the grocery store, I stopped and stood in front of the light bulbs, and wondered if I needed any. I always thought I didn't. I'd better get some anyways . Just in case. Always a four pack of the 60-watts. Generic brand. Home and onto the shelf they went with all the others, and by the end of the year the closet was full. 

II.
I stood staring at the light bulbs wondering what it would feel like to put one in my mouth and to slowly slowly apply more and more pressure just the right amount of pressure until it popped and shattered into my gums. I wondered how the shards would feel and how they would crunch if I chewed. It's funny, I never thought about swallowing them, but I never thought about spitting them out either.

III.
I envisioned myself chewing light bulbs on a fairly regular basis. Don't worry, I never did it, but I couldn't get the idea out of my head. Maybe that's just about right, for that time in my life. I was in my late twenties and just divorced. My ex-husband kept: the house, the dogs, all our furniture. I'd moved into a tiny second-floor studio apartment with wood floors that screamed they creaked so much.

IV.
Late at night, I paced the short length of my apartment. The gritty floors were the color of honey and the bottoms of my feet turned to ash. I wanted to make a path, so that people who lived there after me would see it and wonder about the person who'd paced so much. I held the picture in my head—two boards bent, worn, bare of tarnish. A succession of faces, their eyes tracing my steps.

V.
The person who lived below me banged on my floor, I guess because I was making so much noise with my pacing. I felt bad that I was keeping them awake, but at the same time I liked the idea that in those lonely hours someone was with me. Following my footsteps with their hands.