Breaking Glass - April 27 2026

 

Breaking Glass

April 27 2026

A person from my distant past

has unexpectedly re-entered

my well-settled life.

Is this how it feels

to find a message in a bottle 

washed up onshore?

It floats on ocean currents

circling the globe

for untold years,

accreting barnacles

dodging gyres

and slipping past rocky outcrops 

until your paths somehow cross,

ineluctably drawn

to this exact spot

as if by fate or kismet.

As if life was circular.

As if beginnings always reached

a satisfying end

instead of dying of neglect,

or were‘t ill-conceived to begin with.

And as if coincidence

wasn’t just an accident,

no matter how much we skeptics

scorn the credulous 

who believe there’s some kind of plan.

Trouble is

water may have leaked

and turned the paper to pulp,

or the top has welded shut

and the bottle must be broken

  — sealed in a bag,

then shattered

with a hammer

at its fattest part.

Only to find the ink has faded,

and is as inscrutable

as the person you misjudged

when you were young

and far too trusting. 

Not all reunions end well.

Sometimes, it’s better to leave the past

buried in the sand,

no matter how tempted you are

to dig it up. 

The oceans are vast

its currents unpredictable.

  . . . Most bottles go missing.

If only the one you found

was what you went looking for.

And how, disillusioned or not

against all odds

you can’t stop yourself

from looking for more.

I was reading a New Yorker piece about a dedicated beachcomber who is obsessed with finding messages in bottles. There is a worldwide community of such people. Understandable, since even non-enthusiasts can appreciate the romance and mystery, as well as the thrill of the chase. There are so many tempting possibilities to this idea of a message in a bottle, I immediately wanted to write a poem.

(What Happens When Someone Throws a Message in a Bottle Into the Sea?https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2026/05/04/signed-sealed-delivered)

Shortly after, I glanced at my inbox and was reminded of an email from a childhood friend with whom I’ve recently gotten back in touch. Not so easy for me, since I’m not only not on social media, but generally rather hermetic in my “well-settled life”:  in other words, not one to go looking.

In reality, there are no regrets or bad memories associated with this childhood friend. While the poem takes a diametrically different path. Because I think this is something a reader might relate to: dredging up a long ago acquaintance, friend, or lover from the distant past, only to end up wishing you’d left him or her buried. Going back in time, hoping things might change   . . . or simply forgetting   . . . or wanting to make amends.