Glassblower

By Krystyna Fedosejevs

I’ve met mother’s friend.

The one who inspired her to smile when he intertwined colors into glowing works of art. The one who kissed her when he presented finished pieces and she approved.

Without her patronage his reputation would’ve fallen. His career rendered worthless.

Father didn’t know of him. Nor did he realize it was another who was responsible for his wife’s contentment. He acknowledged her ongoing absences as work-related.

I unpacked a box from my parents’ estate. Onto the mantelpiece I placed an exquisite vase, created by the man who shaped beauty before mother’s eyes. The man I called ‘Dad’.