If these were the real thing, not prints, I’d be prouder. The actual inks, runny and wayward, and the actual sogged papers. Still, from Becca’s hands, they’re treasures.

The cracked glass, well—

Nobody threw their shoes at the wall. My husband and I handled the panes carelessly, that’s all. Maybe—just maybe—the jaggedness provides the requisite element of imperfection.

 

 


 

 


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