A story about cars and callings.

There’s a group of strangers blocking the sidewalk up ahead, and so I thread myself between the nose and tail of two parked cars to walk down the middle of the street instead. That’s how I notice the necklace that dangles from the rearview mirror, tugging at my peripheral vision. It’s strung with hand-painted clay beads: tiny white skulls that almost seem to be smiling, alternated with serene-faced half-moons, their edges blue and glittered. The necklace is from a gift shop in Oaxaca. From a past life of mine. It is mine. And I am seeing it so clearly now, so plainly, because there is no window where there should be a window. The window between me and my necklace is gone. It was my window. This is my car.

I look down, and the glass is everywhere — the pavement, the seat cushions, the cupholders, the floor. It is magnificent, the exuberant scattering of tiny crystalline bits. What seems colorless in the form of a solid pane turns out to be a delightful aquamarine tint. It looks like millions of tiny breath mints. Like candy. I want to reach through the windowless space and grab a handful of it, to filter it through my cupped hands like sand, to hear its shimmering trickle through my fingers.

Lauren is with me, holding the end of Tomato’s leash, saying, “Oh, baby. Oh, baby.” It is midday Sunday and pleasant outside. We were on our way to her car, parked a few…