The Glassmaker

Amidst a city of struggle, anguish and noise, I longed for seclusion—a place I could find respite and feel completely at peace. Desperate to get away, I packed my things and moved to the countryside. I found a place where the grass grows tall. The trees stretch their roots where they choose. The wind blows through the wind chimes as if nature were singing to me. The sun warms my skin and makes me feel alive and comforted. The home I was to live in was small. The wood was rotting in a few places and creaking in others. The windows were broken, glass hanging off its panes. Dust covered the old furniture. It hadn’t been decently cleaned in ages and the smell of decay lingered in the stagnant atmosphere.

I sighed and looked around, determined to make this place a home, but completely unsure of how to do it. I had all the time in the world, and so I got to work. What else was I going to do? And so, with the little money I had, I bought a scrub brush, a bucket and a bit of soap. It didn’t accomplish much, but it was a start. After all, I had only my feminine/inexperienced hands to work with. I managed to remove most of the dirt and breaking out the remaining shards of glass allowed the air to flow freely between rooms.

Eventually the room smelled fresh, to say the least. There was no cellar or attic, but a small room that was padlocked on the side of the house. There was no key, but I was resolute in seeing what was inside. There was a sledgehammer propped up next to it, and so I attempted to break the door handle. After a few blows, the lock relented and swung open to reveal a small tool shed. I didn’t know what to do with them until it rained heavily that night, exposing the weak areas in the house—water filling up all my pots and pans scattered in random places.

When the sun finally returned, I walked to the lumberyard and found all that I needed to rebuild what was broken. This had to be done a little at a time, for it was a lot of back breaking work for just one, young woman to do by herself. But progress was being made. Eventually the house was weatherproof and I slept during the next rainstorm, pleased to find everything dry the next morning. Of course, the temperature was another thing to consider. I had to find glass for the window panes and the wood was still out of shape. The cold, night air sent me into shivering fits every now and then, and I figured it was time to do something about it.

I walked down the road a few miles and found a nearby garden. It seemed well tended to, similar to my own with vegetables, fruit trees and berry bushes. It belonged to the house next to it, which was better off than my own. What seemed very odd was how absent it was of any wild flowers. As if the owner of this home purposely cut them away or the flowers didn’t enjoy his company and rooted elsewhere. The man who dwelled inside came out and I kept walking like a passerby pretending not to notice him—but notice, I certainly did. It was hard not to. He seemed very young for his age, but old enough to be married and possibly have a couple of young ones running around somewhere. But this wasn’t a place where kids grew up and curiosity got the best of me.

I followed the man, who had just entered his large shed and knocked on the door. Immediately I felt silly, prying into someone’s life based off a small spark of fascination and expected the worst. But the voice on the other end yelled for me to come inside and I did so.

“What can I do for you today?” he asked, as I slowly entered and saw him facing a desk with tools and glass of all shapes, sizes and colors. I was dumbfounded at first, surprised that he would act so casual over a stranger standing in his domain. But I quickly noticed the furnace and shelves of his creations that put it all into perspective.
“You’re a glassmaker,” I said.
He finally turned around to look at me, undaunted by my presence, but a small, amused smile hinted on his face. “Yes, I am,” he replied. “Is there something you need?” I tried so hard to respond, but my breath caught and my body started to shake. He waited patiently, completely unaffected by my uneasiness for this man was not only an answer to some kind of prayer, but he was quite pleasing to look upon. With handsome features like his, it was a huge wonder why he would be living here alone. But like the bumbling idiot I am, I could only manage a few words at a time.
“I need some windows.”
“Okay…” he dragged, silently implying he needed more information than that if he was to help me. I finally managed to explain my predicament and he seemed less focused on the windows and more interested in hearing how I managed to rebuild a place that was abandoned for years, alone.
Needing the window’s measurements, he walked with me to my house and had a good look at it. By his expression, he seemed impressed by my work, but did point out some critical errors. I was a little defensive, but listened intently on his suggestions and he made a few valid points. “You have a solid foundation. It’s just weak in certain areas.”
“Could you fix it?” I asked, hopeful that he would and was completely delighted when he agreed to do so.
After taking his measurements, he glanced over at my front porch and scowled in confusion. “Why on earth do you have all those pots?” he asked.
Slightly entertained by his lack of interest in growing things for reasons other than sustaining one’s stomach, I happily replied, “For my flowers.” He grinned slightly and shook his head, walking away without another word. It was clear he had something against them and I was now determined to find out why.

Over the next few weeks, I saw very little of him. He kept to himself or at least away from me and I began to grow discouraged. Even though our conversations were sparse, I craved his company. When he told me my windows were ready, I eagerly yet nervously came by to pick them up. For whatever reason he was very talkative that day, as if I was more of a friend than just another customer. We talked, laughed and enjoyed the afternoon. He showed me the fundamentals of his business and I was quite impressed with his work. Once again, I was astonished how a man like him could still be living alone. Contentment, I guessed. After all, this man had something against flowers. Not that that had anything to do with it, but it felt like it factored somehow.

After making some finishing touches, he installed the windows and I couldn’t have been more pleased. I asked what I owed him and he looked shocked that I would suggest such a thing. Casually, he picked up his belongings and simply said, “I don’t take money from friends.” My heart soared at the sentiment, but I couldn’t possibly let him go to all that trouble and not have some sort of repayment. He left before I could argue and during the following weeks I slept better, feeling the warmth the windows provided at night, and the breeze during the day.

Now I finally had the incentive to put up curtains and readied my flower pots with soil. The season was just right for planting, but I had nothing left to obtain the seeds I wanted. Sure, I could get the second hand seeds. They were cheaper and easier to come by, but they lacked all that I wanted and needed. I knew in my heart I could easily nature them. All it took was love, water and sunshine. I didn’t mind getting my hands dirty and pulling the weeds that would threaten to choke them. My mother taught me well and I was more than capable, but few believed in my talents. It seemed like the glassmaker doubted as well, but didn’t acknowledge it to spare my feelings. Over time I thought of him often, during which the wild flowers underneath my kitchen window began to bloom bright and beautifully. Every now and then I’d admire them, but still longed for the flowers I had yet to plant.

As the summer dragged on, I saw less of him, making attempts here and there to capture his attention, but they were all short lived. Eventually I gave up all hope of ever seeing him again. I looked up in the sky then. Threatening clouds were forming and the wind chimes told me something bad was soon to happen. I attempted to prepare myself, but I wasn’t sure what I was preparing myself for. I left the house, knowing it wasn’t safe to stay there. I ran towards civilization, hoping to find shelter for the upcoming storm. The townspeople were less worried than I was. They had everything they needed. I noticed a familiar face there with me. He acknowledged my existence with a smile, but left quickly without any concern whatsoever. I wondered why until I saw the girl who accompanied him. The glassmaker had someone to shelter the storm with and wouldn’t be facing the disaster alone. In that moment, the hail began to fall and I crowded in the storm cellar with a dozen faceless people, frightened and unaware of my existence for they all had each other and I had no one.

The sun shone again and I returned to my house, completely brokenhearted for I had come back to find the worst. The tornado hadn’t hit my area, but alas my pots were destroyed and all my beautiful windows completely shattered. I stood in my living room, knowing I should have been pleased to see that the walls and roof stayed intact, but nevertheless sorrowful not having a shoulder to cry on. Instead, I sobbed into my hands until my eyes hurt.

I walked around the house, identifying as much damage as I could and saw one flower tucked away behind a loose board. The roots were still firm in the foundation and the petals thrived despite the rough elements it was exposed to. It had the same determination, just as I once had. And right then and there the decision was made—that flower’s struggle for life was not going to be in vain. With the one flower pot I had left, I placed the small bluebonnet in the surviving soil and proceeded to clean up the glass pieces...one by one.

PART TWO

The winter that ensued was long and bitter. I couldn’t leave my house and the silence was deafening. With the work of the glassmaker destroyed, all I could do was board up the windows and hope that the mediocre job I did would hold against the frost and wind. With the world blanketed with a quilt of white, the only color I managed to save was the bluebonnet that somehow continued to thrive in the small pot on my windowsill. It stood in front of a broken piece of glass I shrewdly insulated with mud and clay between its edges and the edges of the windowpane.

When the snow ceased to fall and spring become more evident, all simple cares and worries ceased to exist in my mind as I breathed in the air of new life. I don’t acknowledge the existence of the glassmaker’s home, but only the warmth of the sun as my body slowly absorbed its rays. I closed my eyes, standing still as I felt myself coming back to life. And then a voice rang through my ears, piercing my heart enough to weaken my ability to keep myself standing.

I turn, knowing already the person who has spoken, but I’m somehow still startled to see the glassmaker coming toward me. We stand in the middle in the middle of the road, the snow still slush at our feet, the wind still chilling to the skin, but neither of us notice as we stare into familiar eyes.

We sense each other’s hesitancy is finding the right thing to say, but finally he says, “How are you doing?”
A thousand words lingering on the edge of my tongue, but the only thing that seemed fitting to say was, “I need some windows.”
When is face fell, combined with confliction in his eyes, I feared I had made a mistake. “I don’t make windows anymore...,” he said, a hint of discouragement in his tone, and I made effort to hide my disappointment. But to my surprise, his smile returned as he said, “But for you...I'll see what I can do.”

As the melting of the ice commenced and new life sprouting from the earth ensued, I found myself in the glassmaker's workshop. Having been there once in the past, I didn’t anticipate noticing a difference in how the room was kept. Like my own home, the structure had been damaged, but he had done well to repair it so one could reside there comfortably. Most of the ornate and colorful glass pieces he once had on the shelves were absent. It was clear it had nothing to do with the summer storm—that something else was amiss.

“What happened to all your glass figures?” I ask him as he readied the furnace.
“They were stolen,” he said matter of factly.
“Stolen? By who?” I exclaim.
With a heavy, sorrowful sigh, he answered, “By someone whose name I do not wish to speak.”

Confused, I thought to inquire further, but hearing the vehemence in his voice, thought better to keep out of his business. Thankfully I didn’t have to struggle with that thought for long when his voice softened as he continued to elaborate, comfortable enough to share his feelings. And what I learned was heartbreaking. The girl I had seen the day the storm hit had turned out be someone he deeply cared for as I had expected. Unfortunately her feelings were falsely reciprocated and she left him, taking with her all the beautiful glass sculptures he worked so hard to create. Since then he rebuilt what the storm destroyed, but had little to no motivation to rebuild his dream.

Over the course of the following weeks, I saw the glassmaker often. I’d keep him company while I learned the art of his skill, most of the time just talking about our lives as I admired his work. He came to my home as well, once again to install the windows I asked for, but other times just to talk and laugh about trivial things. One day in particular, we sat together and he motioned towards the windowsill.
“You only have one flower,” he said, remembering the numerous pots I once had scattered around my home.
“It was the one flower that survived the storm last year.”
“You kept it alive this whole time?”
“Obviously,” I chuckled. “I keep it to remind me of my dream—to fill every pot with as many colorful flowers as I can get.”
“And you think that dream will become a reality?”
“I know it will. It won’t be easy with the little means I have, but why give up on something good and important to me?”
The glassmaker went home with a thoughtful expression that day. I knew what I said was food for thought and my heart went out to him. As much as I wanted to see myself as the woman in his life, I wanted more to see him well and happy in the place fate wanted him to be. Not knowing if his own heart would be opened enough to receive the message, on a day I knew he would be out, I took my little bluebonnet and placed it on the desk in his workshop. Next to it, I left and note and hoped for the best.

A week went by with no word from him. It was discouraging to say the least, feeling hopelessly rejected amidst all that was happening. I spent most of my time doing the work around my home that had been neglected during the winter. There was much that needed to be done and it made me feel strong knowing how to do such work independently. But even though the windows were replaced, I lacked the motivation to open the curtains at all during the day. I missed my friend terribly and I feared that my inability to keep my heart closed had cut him off from me forever.

It was one morning when I awoke to the musty smell of dust that gathered on them that I decided it was time to clean them off. For a closer inspection, I drew open one set of curtains to the most shocking sight of my life. In the once empty flower bed that hung outside on the sill contained array of the brightest and most beautiful flowers I had ever seen. Curious, I kept opening the windows to see the same thing, only differences in types of flowers that were planted.

Uncaring of my state of dress, I threw open the door to the most wonderful sight of all. On the wooden porch were pots of different shapes and sizes, all filled with daises, roses, sunflowers, tulips, peonies, azaleas, snapdragons, pansies and other flowers I couldn’t put a name to. Tears immediately sprang to my eyes. But it wasn’t the flowers that caused my emotion, but the man standing the lane. He looked tired and worn, obviously having done this work himself, but his eyes shimmered with same light and color that surrounded my home.

When I didn’t say anything, he slowly approached my doorway, carrying a wadded cloth in his hands and a note in the other.
“It says…,” he began, “it just takes water, sunshine…and love. However little it may be, it will always bring you happiness.” He stepped forward, closing the distance between us so I was now looking up into his eyes. “That small flower was your entire world, wasn’t it? All the love you put into it…you gave to me?”
I nodded, blinking back more tears. That’s when he held out the wadded cloth, opening it to reveal something I had never seen before. It was a flower made entirely of glass, an assortment of colors swirled into intricate designs on the crystal-like petals. “I made it from all that I had left over. It’s not much, but it’s my entire world…and I couldn’t think of anyone more deserving of it…than you. And I hope,” he said, gesturing to the garden that surrounded them, “that with all the love you and I both have combined…our happiness will never stop growing. You brought me back to life.”
“And you fixed my shattered heart.”
“And I will see that it is never broken again.”

I closed my eyes as I felt myself being held in the glassmaker’s arms, his lips pressing against my own, and all at once my world had changed. My house had once been weathered and run down, the windows broken and shattered almost beyond repair, and I relied on no one but myself to fix it all until one man came into my life. Now the foundation is solid and strong, light can now shine to illuminate the darkness, and new life and color adorned the empty spaces to bring love and happiness into my heart.

With the shared love of a gardener and a glassmaker…no longer was this place just a house. It was a home.