Broken Glass

Or rather I should write exploding glass, and I’m still trying to figure this one out. 

Let me set the scene. Hank and I were finishing dinner at the kitchen island, which contains a stove and above it, a range hood with a curved shield of thick, tempered glass. Then, our son Zack called my cell phone and I took it to another room. I could hear Hank clearing our dishes as we spoke. In a short while, I returned after I lost my connection with Zack. 

I was standing, oh, maybe seven feet from the island. Hank was in the room as well, maybe the same distance. Then, there was a large crack as if lightning struck the roof. We stood in our spots while chunks of glass from the hood’s shield flew everywhere — except, thankfully, on us.

We couldn’t figure what happened. We still can’t. We rarely use the damn hood. It took us hours to clean the glass and even so, we still don’t go without something on our feet. The only casualties were a couple of tiny nicks on the case of my laptop — I’m relieved it was closed — and the food in the pots on the stove.

The hood is replaceable. But the bigger question is how things happened as they did. I took a call in the other room. Hank cleared the dishes. If we had been sitting at the island, we would have been hurt badly by exploding glass. The chunks were the size of the crushed stone in our driveway.

My dear friend Bill, who is a priest, says angels saved us. I like that thought. Certainly someone or something did, and it isn’t the first time we’ve been spared trouble. Often it’s happened when we’ve been traveling, helped by strangers in unlikely places. I think of the circumstances that brought us to Taos and how we’ve made a life here. 

Some may call it luck. I’ll gladly take angels.