Her backyard was a glass junkyard
where all her crystal had gone to rot.
We walked it sometimes, when she wanted to smoke.
I appreciated that, not being inside, where the smell would be contained,
though all the shambles of ice beneath our feet freaked me out.

“My mother loved this stuff,” she’d say, forgetting the repetition,
“but it always felt too… careful for me. I was worried growing up
that I would break it.”
“Looks like you did.”
“When she was gone,” she’d nod, “I took a bat to her collection,
and it was simply smashing.”
I laugh at her punchline every time.

She didn’t destroy everything indoors.
She would bring some of the glass outside and swing at it,
wearing protective gear.
She would stomp some stuff underfoot.
“It took a long time to go through everything,” she said.
“It looks like there’s still some solid pieces,”
I gesture to what looks like a mermaid figurine.
“Special occasions,” she says with a smile. “I’ll get to them, eventually.”

We lost touch. I don’t know if she ever got to destroy everything
or if she herself was destroyed first.