
Glass by Christy O’Callaghan
Before leaving for his tour in Vietnam, Marty’s mother insisted he and his brother Glen gather a jar of sea glass from the small pebble beach in front of their home. Ava instructed her sons to count three hundred and sixty-five of the sugared jewels. The boys chatted away and kicked salty waves at each other while they searched.
After Marty’s bus to boot camp disappeared over the horizon, Ava laid out every colorful salt-puckered shard on the kitchen table. With her fingers shaking, she sorted the collection just as her mother taught her, careful not to let her tears touch a single one. Ava counted each precious piece, whispering the prayers of love and protection she’d memorized while listening at her grandmother’s knee. Ava brought even the tiniest of slivers to her lips before placing it back in the jar. One for each day until her eldest boy sat across from her at the table again. The mother wiped her eyes, placed the lid on the jar, and nestled it on a shelf next to his framed baby picture.
A year later, on the weekend in-between Marty’s homecoming and Glen shipping out, the ritual is echoed. The brother’s matching chestnut-colored heads, one buzz cut while the other’s whips in the ocean breeze, bend forward as they comb and cull the pebble beach. Never looking at each other. None of the childish teasing or banter of the year before as they harvest three hundred and sixty-five pieces of sea glass. One for each day. Marty’s trained posture drags down from the weight of his memories and concern over his younger brother’s safety. The younger brother mumbles careful questions of what to expect. The one who wishes he didn’t know offers short, thoughtful replies.
Once Glen’s bus to boot camp disappears over the horizon, again Ava pours the collected bits of color across the kitchen table. Again, she prays. Again, careful not to let her tears touch a single one. She lifts the browns, blues, reds, whites, and greens to her lips one at a time, counting each piece. At three hundred and sixty-four, she looks around the table. Then stands and shakes out her skirt. Dropping to her hands and knees, she searches the worn wooden floorboards; her fingers scan the shadows for what her eyes cannot see.
Christy O’Callaghan lives in Amsterdam, NY. Her favorite pastimes include hiking, gardening, swimming, snowshoeing, and collecting sea glass—anything in the fresh air. You can find her at @christyflutterby on Instagram and Christy O’Callaghan on Facebook. For her weekly blog and to learn more about her writing, go to christyflutterby.com.
13 August 2021
I love this story! So much detail in so few words
Christy you had me at sea glass and left me in tears with only 364 pieces.
Wonderful poignant flash story that captures a different era…will think about this for long time
Masterful, heart-wrenching story! Unbelievably brief; unbelievably haunting.