The Woman Made of Glass
The painting is more than pigment on canvas.
Everyone who deigned to glance at the painting
found themselves frozen mid-step.
Some paused for only two heartbeats,
others wouldn’t look away for hours,
but everyone who saw her
felt her presence.
Anyone could tell you that the painting was
a figment of the artist’s imagination,
but those who looked upon it themselves
would insist the painting was a portrait.
A portrait of the Woman Made of Glass.
None had ever met a glass woman,
but there was no doubt, after seeing her painted,
that this one lived and breathed.
And so the rumors started:
she had once been as small as a teacup,
made by a glass-blower filled with sorrow
after the tragic death of his daughter,
but the glass-blower’s love brought her to life.
She was the artist’s wife,
who brought shame to her family for marrying down,
and was standing next to a window
when an aggrieved family member set fire to the house
to erase the scar she and the artist were on the family name.
She had been an artist herself,
working with delicate pieces of stained glass and
commissioned by kings to piece together works
for cathedrals and palaces – until she got sick
and built herself a new body of glass
for her spirit to occupy when her body died.
Whoever she was – whoever she is –
the Woman Made of Glass
filled those who looked upon her portrait
with wonder and hope.
And, if you look long enough,
you might see the light glint off her left eye
as she winks in hopes of making you smile.
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