curio ovenbird When my husband’s parents are dead we go through all the things they’ve left behind. My sister-in-law takes an antique diamond ring. She deserves it, she thinks, for being the only daughter. I pick through crystal trinkets and pearl earrings and collectible art. There’s nothing I want. All these things belong to a bygone era, to a family steeped in naval traditions where fathers were stern and absent and women were glamorously domestic and children were seen and not heard. These mementos are as dead as the people who curated them, all their associated memories mouldering. I leave the room where my inherited siblings are frantically panning for gold and coming up empty handed. In the dimly lit hall I catch sight of my reflection in polished glass. My face has split into shards, round petals of rainbow translucence that have broken free of their soldering. Beneath my fractured skin a mirror shines through, black like a Claude glass, collecting distant skies and giving them back to me. I could show you to yourself. You only have to let your eyes travel from my brow to my chin to see everything you’ve ever been. My lips are as sharp as the shattered wings of fallen angels, but I draw blood so gently. The red ink that spills from your mouth is worth more than any jewel encrusted bauble in this house. 260227 what's it to you? who go blather from