All of them are designed to perfection, each one crafted uniquely by hand by the artisans of the ancient, revered trade. Those who create beauty for beauty’s sake, the glass crafters, had made every single one with the most delicate and skilled touch. The smooth texture of their flowing gowns, every last feather of their perfect wings made visible by the artisan’s precise attention to detail. Crystalline faces molded by caring and loving hands and finally, when the last detail of the flowing hair was completed, they were exalted, raised to high shelves and put behind clear panes for all to behold, love and envy, while their clear eyes watched the crowds, scanning for the one worthy to be called their new master.

They are an elite breed, the glass angels. Only the finest in skill can create them, and even within that they must have a charge from above, a blessing from the great deities, to be granted permission to give form to the likenesses of divine creatures.

No two are ever the same. This one has a flute with which to charm and give comfort to the crestfallen; the other holds nothing but holds his hands folded in humble prayer to his ruling god. But they have one thing in common-- they are all perfect.

I collect these pristine figurines. They stay by my side always, watching me in awe and wonder from a showcase in my office. The collection, over the years, has evolved and changed, as I have, and some I thought precious to me aren’t even present anymore.

I had a scribe angel many years ago. It caught my attention with a glint of the sunlight, from the window of a shop, and I knew it had to be mine. In one hand it held a quill pen and in the other, a scroll. The face was wise yet humble and quiet, and I could tell it held much potential in my case, a piece unlike any of the others I yet had. But when I got home, I discovered something quite grievous-- a flaw I had not noticed in the shop, a crack, almost concealed by the folds of his gown, near his heart. Nevertheless I put him in the case with the others, yet daily I cursed him and his presence until I could take it no more, and one fateful day I, fed up, cast him out the window.

The next day I went out in search, desperate almost, to fill the empty space left behind. I picked up the first angel I came across, a rather large figurine with a stern look to him, his head held high and in every millimeter of design some kind of noble strength, a sword in his hands whose tip touched the ground by his feet. For a time I admired this severe angel and his less refined, more brutal type of beauty, but I grew wary of him fast. For there was something wrong with him that I could not exactly place, but until I removed him from the case one day I couldn’t be sure. As soon as my fingers touched him, I gasped-- something was vile about this figurine, like the feeling someone was watching you over your shoulder as you did something shameful, a strong kind of... presence. Cursing myself for weakness, I pulled him from the case, feeling the sickening, lingering spirit hovering about me, and cast the angel with all my force against the wall. He shattered brilliantly, no shard resembling what he had been, and the evil spirit was gone.

Then came the choir angel. He stood out to me, the attire catching my eye, different from most of the angels I owned. His mouth opened in a song to exalt and praise, hands folded at his chest as if the song itself were a prayer. Yet I fear he came to an unfortunate fate as well, accidentally dashed against the side of my auto on the way home, even in his protective paper wrappings, leaving two cracks on his perfect form. One on his right arm, the other, a nick in his wing. But in this situation, I could not bear to be rid of him, though I did occasionally curse him for his flaws, and he remains in my case still.

Next to him are two angels that I have had so long I cannot remember when I first obtained them. However they achieved it, they came to me and to this day are the most exquisite in my collection.

The first holds in his arms a harp, finely crafted, detailed fingers lovingly plucking the strings of his instrument. He is the very definition of perfection, not a single flaw in his entire design. Many times I remove him from the case to admire him closer, my fingers trailing every line and curve of his exquisiteness for even up to an hour before I can bring myself to put him back in his rightful place. And the other, I admire just as equally. The other holds in his hand an olive branch for peace, the other hand held over his heart and his face holds the most compassion of any of the other angels. My heart has grown attached to this one the most, often I take him out of the case, but unlike the latter I clutch him to my chest, letting him listen to the beating of my heart as I tell him he is safe, here, with me.

At the very front of all these now stands the dearest to me now, the most recent addition to my collection. A tiny cherub, a little girl with joy in her face and promise in her form. In her hand, a miniscule candle, the hope for the future burning bright, right there in her palm. The very sight of her bringing joy to me with every glance. The lovely child I call my own.

Oh my lovely cherub, I know you understand. Those all around you will end up flawed someday, broken, cracked, discolored.

But not you.

Never you.