I should fix it. The contractor gave me a quote I tucked into a drawer. But I’ve grown used to the way morning light now comes in shards—each crack a different lens. The longest one catches the rain just right, turning a Tuesday downpour into a slow, glittering leak. I’ve set a pot on the floor beneath it. The ping of each drop is my new clock.
Here’s a short atmospheric piece titled The first crack appeared last winter—a hairline silver thread in the glass, so fine you could pretend it wasn’t there. Now it’s a delta, a tiny river map branching toward the frame. Sunlight used to pour through this skylight like clean water. Now it splinters: a broken prism casting long, fractured rainbows across the floor at noon.
Sometimes I lie under it and trace the cracks with my eyes. The glass is still holding—bruised, opaque at the edges, but holding. I wonder if that’s what healing looks like: not whole again, but still keeping out the worst of the wind. Still letting something through, even if it’s bent.
