Back then, my days were black and dim, and my sky was a canopy of murky leaves.
I would stumble through that thick, dark forest and try to keep myself from tripping over the tangled roots that blanketed the ground. Sometimes I fell anyway--never hard enough to shatter completely, but painful breaks all the same. When that happened, I learned to kindle a smoky fire and press the smoldering branches to the broken pieces, clenching my jaw against the searing pain until the glass was whole again.
The fire could burn away a bit--just a little--of the mold covering me. I remember once, after fixing my left hand, how my fingers glinted dully in the fire's tiny flickering glow. It didn't last long. The mold always grew back quickly.
The angles were never quite right after I put myself back together. I stumbled on and on, crooked toes scraping at the dirt and knees cracking in the cold.
One day, unexpectedly, my darkness splintered and fled.
I met a woman who shone so brightly that I could see her coming for a long time. Her glass was new and clear, her face hidden in brightness. I thought I might go blind from looking at her.
"Where did you get your light?" I asked, staring though my eyes burned--because it was beautiful, because I had never seen anything like it.
"Oh," she said with something rapturous in her voice, straightening and sparkling even brighter. She lifted her clean hands like mirrors and pointed up. "Let me tell you about the sun."