hurtle

i watched you in the reflection of the bay window, reading your newspaper calmly as i ranted.  you sighed loudly, as if i were an arbitrary annoyance, a fly in your ear or a juice stain on the tablecloth.  and i finally collapsed onto the sofa, letting big tears bleed onto the cushions.  i had a vision, then, of grabbing your favorite ceramic vase off of the matlepiece and hurtling it onto the harth, screaming ‘look what you’ve done!  comfort me, comfort me, damn it!’ and then i grabbed your glass angel and your handcarved manger scene and all of great-grandmothers glass-wear and threw it as hard as i could.  when i opened my eyes, i could still see you reading the global events of the day, your face serene and unchanged.