Holding Glass:

It was spring, but everything was warm. The air was like hot breath on your face, the ground was spongy and felt like chocolate between the toes, even the rain felt like a lukewarm shower. We didn't mind; it gave us more time to blow bubbles in the sunshine, and run barefoot in the rain, and make mud castles in the back yard. His mom didn't like it when we played in the mud. We had a tendency to uproot some of her carrots so we could go feed the horses down at the Hayes' Farm.

That day we wanted to blow bubbles in the wind, and watch as the invisible fingers pulled them away from us and into oblivion. I sat on the front steps, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and some shorts, all of which were smudged with all kinds of stains from various adventures. He stood on the cracked cement walkway, in much the same condition as I, his blue bottle of bubbles clutched in his right hand; he was a lefty. My bottle was purple, and for some reason I believed that our bubbles were different colors because of the difference of colored plastic. He blew at the soapy liquid until tiny bubbles came fluttering out, floating on the humid motionless air before disappearing. We grinned each time we watched this phenomenon; it was something that would never grow old in our minds.

I reached out to try to touch one, but it popped on my finger. He watched with vague amusement and yet seemed to hope I could do it. I cupped my hand and slowly, as gently as an eight year old could, held it underneath the largest bubble floating there; for a breath it sat there before disappearing like the rest of them, spitting tiny drops of soap on my skin. We grinned at each other.

I wouldn't realize until later how fragile that bubble had been, how similar to life it had been; it was like holding glass, so tender and precious. I wished I could have gone back to those days, the innocent days of endless summers and adventures. Those days were gone, he was gone, and in his place was a marble grey headstone and an emptiness in my guts that would take years to heal. I wished he would come back, back to the day were we held glass; but his life had sputtered and popped too soon. I would never be the same.

A/N: Feeling a bit of writer's block, so I found a picture and wrote about it. This is simply a one shot. I won't torture you by attempting anything more.