The Diamond Point I keep a little engraving tool beside my window, its wooden handle warm and smooth against my palm. I follow the grain to its opposite end, where a diamond point rests, so tiny, that I almost miss it. The whole tool fits comfortably between my fingers, yet that barely visible tip is strong and sharp enough to leave a mark that cannot simply be wiped away. There are so many beautiful materials to work with. Wood, with its winding grain and knots. Metal, with its polished shine. Stone, with its colors and patterns formed long before anyone touches it. But of all these things, I find myself returning to glass. I'm especially fond of the pieces others overlook. The ones with faint green edges, tiny bubbles suspended inside, or gentle waves running through their surface. I hold each one against the morning sun, turning it slowly, watching the light discover details I hadn't noticed before. Already, I imagine tracing a few careful lines, following the glass's natural character, inviting the light to reveal even more of what makes it beautiful. Sometimes I'm so captivated, I spend longer looking than engraving. I rest the glass with its little bubble on a folded cloth, steady the diamond between my fingers, and begin. A quiet scratch. A thin white line. Another, curving gently around the bubble, unfurling into little leaves. The glass and I converse. The point catches; I ease my hand. It glides; I follow the curve. The hours gather steadily in my wrist; the lines catch light. I pause where another line might hide more than it reveals.. Then comes my favorite part. I lift it toward the window. Sunlight catches the little leaves, brightening their delicate edges, while the bubble nestled between them sparkles like a drop of water. And the glass itself— its green edges, its gentle waves, the little details I leave untouched— seems to shine even more beautifully beside the lines I've carefully traced. I set the finished piece down and reach for another, different from the last. It’s dark topaz edges catches the morning sun, and a small wave rests beneath its surface. I lift it toward the window, just as I always do. But through its gentle curve, my fingers appear strangely narrow. The window frame behind them leans where I know it stands straight. I turn the glass. Then turn it again. Gently, as I always try to do. The light moves across its surface, catching the deep gold along its edges, but the image of my hand never seems to quite settle. At first, I look more closely. Then, I begin looking harder. I eventually put the glass down and begin. My thumb presses against the wooden handle. I draw a short, brisk line near the edge. Not a leaf this time, nor anything meant to catch the light beautifully. A warning. Just enough to say enough. But the image remains unchanged. The frame still bends, and my hand still appears diminished. I know this surface. I've studied its curves, noticed where the glass grows thin, where the smallest pressure might reach deepest. And this time, I choose that place. The point catches. I know how to ease my hand. This time, I press. A thin and pale line travels from the diamond, past the place I intend it to end. I lift my hand. The fracture continues a little farther before coming to rest. For a moment, I only look. Then, as I always do, I lift the glass toward the light. Sunlight finds the topaz edges, the little wave still resting within, and now, the fracture running beside it. All of it illuminated. I turn the glass slightly. The fracture catches the light again, bright against the deeper gold. The glass has not shattered. Its edges are still smooth. So much of it remains untouched. But the line remains. I know what I wanted to stop. I know why my hand tightened. And I know where I chose to press. The glass is still beautiful. The fracture is still mine. And the next time the familiar world looks strange through a piece of glass, I feel my fingers tighten again. I recognize where the diamond could reach. My hand remembers the pressure. But sunlight gathers along the glass's edge, and there it is— the beauty I first came to admire. From this angle, the frame still looks crooked through the glass. I still want my hand to look like my own. I hold the glass in one hand, the diamond in the other, a little longer than I need to. Then I lower the glass onto the folded cloth. The diamond remains in my hand, sharp as ever. The glass loses none of its beauty. My hand is still my own. And for now, we do not have to touch.