heart of glass

I'm not sure if it was in Buda or in Pest, but I was visiting the Hungarian capital several years back, in my younger years, when an exuberant air of adventure caught me and I determined myself to hike the mountain sitting along the bank of the Danube, with aim to reach the formidable and resplendent castle looming atop. It sat there, resolute and reckoning, blazing above the hazy city air like a stone construct of long-ago strength, an enduring witness of its people's strife and success. It was the most enchanting thing I had seen. And, as I ventured up the steep slope in my running shoes, past the small parking lot and into the castle itself, I was thrown back into an old-world history of which North America can lay no hand. I recall a few polished ornaments adorning the hallway walls and the air smelled dank and heavy of tobacco smoke mixed with the funk of aged upholstery, for which no breeze from an opened window could rid. Since it was by now late afternoon and as I was admittedly fatigued from my ascent after a full day of solo sight-seeing within the city, I was thus forced by circumstances to make short my castle visit and had to resign myself to the simple pleasurable reward of having reached my day's goal without going much into it. It was to my relief I then saw a small restaurant-bar tucked away at the end of a darkened hall. I relished to sit and rest my feet awhile, and so I sat and ordered a coffee, espresso-style. On my way out of the castle, I felt still somewhat in need of some kind of marker, some memory-maker to show claim of my personal triumph and discovery. Luckily, as industry would have it, there was a modest display by the door of various crystalware for sale, as was available throughout the city. I had, until that point, not acquired a single one of these souvenirs from any shop I had browsed, and so I felt it most befitting and significant that I should buy my crystal vase from this castle collection. Decision made, the attendant opened the case, we made the transaction and then one was mine. I happily carried the vase back, later packed it right, and eventually returned across the Atlantic and placed it carefully in a cabinet in my home. There it rested for years and whenever I would look at it, or would place it on the table filled with fresh spring flowers, I would smile and remember my humble conquest that brought it there.

It was, therefore, today to my great pain that I heard a clunk as I clumsily maneuvered a heavy jar over the vase. A big three inch chunk of the crystal vase's rim broke off and landed wholly on the kitchen countertop from where I had forgotten to move it after cleaning. With that crack, I felt my memories crack as well, and I could not help but feel sadder than I should. It was just a thing, a material thing, something I could replace with some effort, maybe even have fixed with some effort. But, for whatever reason, I had placed more into that crystal vase than could be discerned. It was for me greater than the sum of its pieces lying there; a startling reminder of the fragile nature of our happiness.