He snaps the string, imprints a solid blue line across the sheet of glistening glass. Adjusting the blade, he slices through with a clean, precise cut.
Glass is a clear shield, transparent and fragile, but rooms full of windows allow for the recapture of restless nightmares. When he was little, his father drunk and raging with a hammer, chasing his mother. Epiphany in the middle of bitter nights. Daddy beating the windows out of the house, out of the car. Daddy at the windows, then a sonic boom of smashed glass and violence. Those jagged window remains singing sorrow in splinters, bursting in the frigid night air.
These days, glass is smooth like a sorrowful lake of past secrets. Examining the sheet of glass, he tackles the rough edges with a belt sander.