Throwing stones

Broken Glass

Once upon a time, that’s the way I remember him.

Once upon a time, he and I lived in a glass shoe. And this glass shoe was neatly placed in the centre of a green field in the centre of a small village in the centre of a vast forest. And we were the centres of each other’s world. He played with transformers and I played with hot wheels. We spoke in small sentences, such as “I like this” or “lets play in the heel.”

Once upon a time, he was a boy and I was a girl, that’s the way we remember ourselves.

Once upon a time his hair was red and ine was blond. Everyone in the small village in the vast forest had black hair. They played with paper, tools and building blocks. They spoke in long sentences with large words. Such as “After long consideration and an introspective look we are content to obviate from the cultural inconsistencies.”


Once upon a time, we were young and our memory was here and now.

Once upon a time, he and I could no longer find joy in our transformers and hot wheels. We wanted our red and blond hair to darken and deepen. We found our short sentences lacking, all because there was a crack in our shoe and the long dark sentences had seeped through disturbing our sleep. Their words from the small village burnt our grassy field and soot covered our glass shoe.

Once upon a time, he and I were friends. We saw our similarities not our differences.

Once upon time, we left our glass shoe. We sought new shelter within the small village in the vast forest. In our short sentences we asked, “Please, share with us.” They pulled at our hair, examined our toys, and took pictures of us, standing next to the heel of our glass shoe now covered in soot in the centre of the burnt grass field.

Once upon a time, he and I thought we were okay. We fit with each other.

Once upon a time, they changed our clothing, took away our toys, cut our hair and extended our sentences. They wanted us to use their paper and tools and building blocks. They wanted us to walk in straight lines, and live in row houses made from wood and plastic. They gave us names, Fred and Mary. They gave us birth dates, watches, calendars and schedules. They laughed at our offerings of shells and grass.

Once upon a time, he found joy in our toys, in our appearance, in our language, in our similarities. That’s the way I remember him.