Prized Possession

(A very rough draft. Critiques welcome.)

There were two panels of stained-glass
In the house that I grew up in.
They framed the front door
That opened up to a hardwood forest
That cushioned my house from the world.

I remember looking up at the glass
as it cast its amber colored light upon me
and wishing that I could be
so tall
as to touch it.

The glass creations
were an artistic interpretation
of a woman's most prized posession.
The uterus.
They hung upside down
speaking volumes about
the woman
who put them there.

My mother had put them there.
She had discovered them
while digging through bins at
a flea-market one June.
They were nestled in between
stiff, wrinkled copies of Ladies Home Journal
and forgotten and quite moldy
crocheted throws.
She saved them from certain waste.

They rode in the back of the van,
promising her that they
would shed their light
on her and womanhood
as soon as the house was built.

For months the glass waited
faithfully following her
on every trip to town.
Until it was time to be placed
into their positions.

When it was time,
my mother
pulled them out.
Only to find that the beautiful glass,
had shattered, held only together
by the lead that framed each shape.

My mother felt as broken as the glass
and wept for the prized possession
that she had failed to give new life to.
And she swiped her tears away
and hung them anyway.
Blemishes and all.

And there in their place of honor,
framing the door that looked upon the woods,
I saw them. Long after my mother
herself, had cracked beyond repair
and relinquished her prized possession.
With my hand, outstretched to reach up
to the amber colored light that
wrapped itself around me
like a maternal embrace,
I stood there wishing
I could be
so tall
as to touch it.