A Glass Home

I construct a house with every wall made of glass. The glass sparkles in delight when the sun hangs his body upon its length, and turns impenetrably dark when night takes residency in the sky. The darkness is egalitarian, turns everything the same color as everything else, including oneself. The light is so clear it exposes everything (including oneself). 

In the mornings, strangers walk by the glass house and reflexively look inside. I’ve never bought curtains, and I don’t obscure the endless windows with paintings. 

In the afternoon, a queer-looking woman walks a teetering three-legged terrier and watches me in the shower. Foamy suds gather around my bare feet. When I look back at her through eucalyptus and steam, she averts her gaze.

Later, a man with a sagging face smiles at me while I comb my hair. His smile’s underpinned by a kind sincerity, and instinctually, I smile back. 

When neighborhood children see my kitchen oven agape, they rush to the front door with loose floppy limbs. Pound cake sits fresh on the granite counter top as daylight casts ribbons upon everything. The children paw at the front door and I feed them sweetness in bird sized bites. 

Most people refuse to live in glass houses. They’re held by the solidity of concrete, hidden behind boards of wood, turned invisible through erected walls and closed doors; as if to be seen was to debase oneself. I thought the glass house would terrify me with its choicelessness in exposure. Then, on a damp Spring morning, I walked to the mailbox at the end of the driveway and stood on the cusp of my front lawn. 

The street was reflected onto the glass walls. The outside world was masqueraded as the inside. The glass was not clear, but a one-way mirror. Inside the house, I could see the world outside as a passing spectacle, save the simple things that remain solid and true: the heavy-leafed elm, the fractured concrete, the corner fire hydrant. Because I could see out there, I thought they could all see in here. 

My concern about privacy was absolved.  The reflection was a consolation. All everyone could see out there was themselves—destined to see only that which sees.