Where Gods Dance

This one was made of glass. He wasn’t all that similar to my son, but he was sweet with a high, gentle voice like wind blowing across branches. I had gathered all the glasses my son had once drunk from, cartoon characters emblazoned in cheap heat transfers, which I had to pull out of the crush before melting. I gathered memories of gentleness, breathed my nostalgia and love into the vessel as it cooled.

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