[one might have thought it was made of glass.]
delicate. intricate. beautiful
atleast that's what he'd told us. but he carried it around in a brown paper bag with the top folded down, so no one could see inside. only he would lift the edge, from time to time, and peek in. that look would spread across his face. that glow, as if somewhere within himself, he was completely at peace. none of us knew why he kept it, or why he pretended to love it so much. whether he loved it or not, it was a treasure. and it was his.
after a week or so, he stopped looking inside the bag. he just stared at the outside when he had nowhere else to look.
one day i watched as he carried an old cardboard box outside, then rummaged through it for about twenty minutes, pulling out a hammer. he carried the hammer and his brown paper bag to the edge of the grass, where it met the concrete--gently opened the bag one more time and smiled. he closed the bag with the papery ruffling usually attributed to brown paper bags, and set it on the ground. he raised the hammer, took a breath, and let it fall. i heard the hard smash as his treasure came to pieces. he stood up, returned the hammer to its box, his box to his house, and held the brown paper bag tightly in his left hand all the while.
he still carries it. we'll never know what he sees when he opens that little brown bag.

broken treasures