Number games. Western cultures are obsessed with even numbers. But, two is not a good number. Four is definitely not a good number, nor, because it is 2 x 4, is eight. I used to have 8 of those very large Libby “Texas tumblers,” in the Chivalry pattern. They are wonderful filled with iced tea, thrangling with ice cubes. You can’t find them anymore. Believe me I’ve looked. Why? Several years after I got them, the dish washer ate one. Took a large bite out of the rim of it . I’ve had the other seven through three moves and almost 40 years. The same with the eight tall, blue and white Chinese pattern teacups with lids I got at Pier 1, which I’ve had through two moves and probably fifteen years. The dishwasher took a nip out of the rim of one of them last summer. I keep the nipped one out on the counter now filled with those little packets of Crystal Light.
One is a good number. So is three. Five has a two in it and seven has a four in it. Nine is the best, though, because it’s 3 x 3. I know if I get an even number of something, sooner or later I’ll break one. If its something I really like, I always try to get an odd number — one or three or five or seven or nine. The next glass I’ll break will probably be one of those cobalt blue glass tumblers. I have ten of them.
Stained glass is a song of color written for a choir of light.
The cobalt blue glass from which I drink the sweet golden cold of apple juice, thirst quenching for both eye and tongue.
I lift to my lips a cobalt blue glass and sip raspberry tea, rattling with ice cubes. The glass is sweating profusely in the unaccustomed humidity; droplets of condensation drip from its nether edge and hit my tee-shirt like tiny water balloons. If I were to go out walking this very minute, what would passersby think of my tee-shirt speckled just in this one small area of midriff with blots of moisture? I imagine Jeremy Brett’s Sherlock glancing my way, his eyebrow rising, one corner of his mouth quirking wryly, putting period to his deductions with a single soft Humph! of amusement.
The bell-like descending arpeggio the glass sings as I drop ice cubes into the tea one at a time.
The clouds are debating whether or not to rain. There is a wide difference of opinion.
A white plastic grocery bag has jumped the fence and wanders restlessly around the yard.
Sunlight glowing through naked bottles made of colored glass. Crimson, cerulean, cobalt, Lincoln green, golden brown, pale aqua. ‘Why do you have all those old bottles cluttering up the window sill?’ My mother asks. ‘To capture rainbows,’ I reply.