The Glass Prism

Rolling past the newspaper stand, I reached the flared footing of an ornate cast-iron lamppost. Trapped in a seam of gravel was a heavy chandelier prism—thick leaded glass, lozenge-cut, chipped at the tip. I leaned my weight forward, nudging with the edge of my silver jaw until the heavy facet shifted upright against the peeling black iron. The noon sun struck its bevel squarely. A brilliant spectrum of violet, amber, and indigo painted across my golden forehead, pooling onto the weathered concrete. Resting firmly against the cold iron, I held the light.