The Glass in My Foot

When I was in second grade in Saratoga Springs, New York, someone broke a Corel bowl in the hallway at home. My parents swept and cleaned up the shards. With all their efforts, I somehow ended up stepping on a stray piece of the bowl some days later. My foot bled and bled, and my parents couldn't remove the shard. They wrapped my foot in a towel and took me to the doctor. I don't remember the doctor's visit and glass removal, but I do remember my dad picking out my outfit and being mortified at school because my outfit was so embarassing (a red plaid skirt and top that I never wore).

I am a little obsessive about picking up broken glass in my home. I have a routine of picking up all the pieces I can by hand, sweeping and then vacuuming the entire room. To double check that I got all the shards, I kneel down so that my eye is as level with the floor as possible, scanning the floor for any bumps. More vacuuming, more kneeling, until I can call the kitchen cleared. Yet, try as I might, weeks later, I will find stray shards when I'm sweeping the floor.

As I was sweeping the floor yesterday, I found one of these strays in the dustpan, the glitter of glass catching my eye. How fortunate that my broom found it instead of someone's foot. A lie, I realized, looking at the contents of the dustpan, is like broken glass. Try as you might to clean it up, you never know if you got all the shards or when one will end up in your foot.