“It won’t be wavy,” I said.
Ezoic
“No. It’ll be clear.”
Ezoic
I sat with that for a while.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Put in the new glass.”
Abe kept it for almost two months. Dad called him every week to check on it. I think Abe started to dread the phone ringing.
Then, on a Sunday afternoon in December, I heard Dad’s truck in my driveway.
The rattle. The idle. The door slamming.
I looked out the front window, and there he was, wrestling something big and flat and wrapped in moving blankets out of the truck bed.
He carried it into the living room and set it down against the couch. Then he stepped back.
“Go on,” he said.
I knelt down and pulled off the blankets.
The frame was whole again. Dark walnut, polished so it glowed. The corner where it had split was seamless. I ran my finger over it and couldn’t feel the join. The carved roses were at the top, just like always. And the one with the chip had a new petal, carved so carefully that I had to look three times to find it. It was just a tiny bit lighter than the rest.
