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Yael Mermelstein

It all started with a rock through the window. I was sitting at the piano playing a composition by Bach. I don’t remember which song it was, but I remember the composer. Minds are weird that way.

Monday, June 02, 2014

I heard the sound of glass breaking before I saw anything at all. It wasn’t the tinkle of Raindrops by Chopin but it wasn’t the crashing of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 overture either. For some reason I wasn’t afraid. I guess I’m not really afraid of anything anymore. My mother didn’t hear — if she would have heard she would have run to me. She would have hovered over me to make sure that I didn’t get pricked by a shard of glass. She would have turned the house around with her very own arms to make sure that I wasn’t in danger. She was that kind of mom. I knew it was the window but before I looked at the hole in the window I looked at the floor to see what had fallen. It wasn’t a ball. A ball would have been a mistake. A throw gone wrong. No. It was a rock, round and small and smooth. A rock was not a mistake. A rock was on purpose.

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