by Mark Groaning
I went into the city today—not for lunch or a meeting or anything particularly glamorous. Just a simple mission: pick up a repaired piece of glass.
A small shard of color I had made for someone, long ago. Her cleaners accidentally broke it. She asked if I could repair it. I did. That’s why I am here. Specifically to retrieve it, pack it and mail it back to her.
So I drove to the off-site studio—the old metal shop turned glass cave. The kind of place that smells like melted memory and dusted-off tools. I haven’t been there much since moving most of my making home, but I keep the kiln there. That slow, steady furnace that breathes life back into broken things.
I knew exactly where the piece was. I had already fired it. Wrapped it carefully in paper like a fragile gift to myself. I even set it aside—separate from the chaos, just to be safe.
And then… the rusted ghosts began to speak.
Steel parts—my early illustrations frozen in metal—called out from their bins and corners, shapes scattered orderly across the studio walls. Laser-cut feathers. Bent wings. A tiny welded joint for a sculpture that never quite found its balance. Forgotten tools with my fingerprints still etched into their handles.
I couldn’t help myself. These weren’t just leftovers. They were seeds. Seeds created in a type of hibernation. Sleeping. Waiting. Patient.
So I packed them. Slowly, methodically, like rediscovering old letters you once meant to send. My van filled, the past humming softly beneath each bungee cord and blanket.
It wasn’t until I hit the second stoplight, two blocks away, that I felt it.
That shift in the gut. That small, sharp oh no.
I had done the thing again. The substitution.
Like walking into a room to grab a coat and walking out with a cup of tea instead. My hands were full, but not with the thing they’d promised to carry.
The glass piece—the reason I came—was still safely waiting. Right where I had left it. Right where I had protected it. Right where I had... forgotten it.
Maybe that’s how memory works. Maybe that’s how making works too. You go in for one reason, but leave with something unexpected. Some days you retrieve what was lost. Other days you carry home a van full of stories you didn’t know you’d packed.
Either way, the furnace still breathes. I did the turnaround. I went back for the glass memory. Time to send it on its way home again.
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