A silent groan escaped the old man as he settled into the sofa. How frail had he become? Even standing for a mere quarter hour had become a difficulty. The soft rustling in the kitchen, down the hall, indicated where his wife was preparing tea. He grasped for the bottle on his right with pale, creased hands. Carefully resting the clear glass in his fingers while peering at the three masted ship inside. His master piece. Today he would teach his granddaughter, who sat on the stool staring in awe, how to make one. Thus smiling he passed over the ship, although she had seen it one thousand times before, she still studied it with admiration. He was delighted to teach the art of ship building to her, however, he couldn't help but think of the night he swore to himself to never build a ship in a bottle again. That night he destroyed his life's work.
It was cold, so cold. The rain fell on the metal roof in sharp, mind numbing patterns. He could feel the worn wood through his socks as he ascended the stairs, each step was a reminder that his precious daughter would never walk again. Each protesting screech of the steps was a cry of agony he never heard. The door to his study was open when he stepped on the landing, as if to taunt him by showing another world where she still lived. Light refracted off the glass that lay around the room, shining into his eyes. But nothing had the right to shine, not when the world outside was so grey. Glancing around the room he gazed at all the ships he had made with her, his eldest child. His dead child. The sails he had raised with her devoted help. They all glared back at him as if to say, 'you don't belong here Jack.' Perhaps he didn't belong here, maybe no one belonged here in this room full of glass bottles.
Gazing through the doorway he silently counted each one. Every lone ship had a special memory attached. Memories that hurt. Angry tears began to pool in his dark eyes whilst his conscience began to torment him with remembrances of Susie. He grasped the wooden door frame with a cold, dead hand, to keep himself from striking the wall on the left. How he loathed them, every bottle. They caused him too much pain and too much grief. They had to be destroyed. He never wanted to see another one again.
He stepped through the doorway and grasped the nearest vessel. Ready to shatter it, but, he hesitated listening to the ever present rain as it fell. Slowly the clear container slid through his fingers and dropped like the first drop of rain in a storm. Glass cracked as every bottle took the weight of his anger. Slowly the floor became a mosaic of broken wood and fragmented glass as each boat and its container crashed down to their fellow comrades in pieces. He could see her, in every piece of glass, her brilliant smile that he would never see again. He wanted to cry, but there were no more tears left to spill. He swore to himself then, that he would never build another ship in a bottle again. Ever again.
"Grandpa?" he was brought back to the present to see his grandchild gazing at him with concern drawn on her young face. He would not make the same mistake again. He would teach her. He eased her worried look with a smile as he took back the bottle and began to show her how to find the right bottle for ship building. Time heals every wound, he mused, but scars will always linger.
