broken cups, broken hearts.

Cups break and shatter on my carpet floor. It’s carpet floor, layered with my mother’s Afghan rugs, stacked upon one another like layers of our ancestry. And yet glass cups continue to break, porcelain, plastic, despite the warmth and cushion from our carpet floor. Bits and pieces scattered across the room, across the whole house now that I think about it. My mother’s rugs haven’t done well to cushion their falls. I wonder how that works.