I’m still a child, only as tall as my father’s shotgun. Dad’s asking me to bring it with me as I go out to where he is resting on the hood of the car. He lifts the shotgun out of my hands and lays it across his lap. When I sit next to him, I can feel the summer heat coming off his skin like he’s just another tin roof on a hot day.

I don’t mind that the tomato seeds, left over from his afternoon lunch in the garden, drop off his chin and land on my arm. The tiny seeds cling to my flesh and rise above it like Braille on a page.

“My heart is made of glass,” he says as he starts to roll a cigarette. “My heart is made of glass and if I ever lose you, Betty, my heart will break into more hurt than eternity would have time to heal.”

I reach into his pouch of tobacco and rub the dry leaves, feeling each as if it were its own animal, alive and moving from fingertip to fingertip.

“What’s a glass heart like, Dad?” I ask because I feel like the answer will be greater than I can ever imagine.

“A hollow piece of glass shaped like a heart.” His voice seems to soar above the hills around us.

“Is the glass red, Dad?”

“It’s as red as the dress you’re wearin’ right now, Betty.”

“But how is a piece of glass inside you?”

“It’s hangin’ in there from a sweet little string. Within the glass is the bird God caught all the way up in heaven.”