I could feel the relish with which the hands gently picked me up and carressed my glass sides. How lovingly those lips neared mine and brushed so softly and so sweetly. Each kiss was slow and deliberate, filled with longing for more. Yet, it was not long before I was empty. Devoid of the sustenance which had provoked each stroke, each glance from the hands who found me.
My first thought was despair. What purpose did I have now? Was I to be abandoned carelessly, now that I was little more than a shell? Would I be tossed violently, left to become merely shattered pieces of glass? A shiver ran down my thin body and I tried to stand taller, to prove that I could still be used somehow.
For a long time I sat in the sand. Occasionally the hands would reach down and hold me, tip me upside down. But I was empty, there was not a single fulfilling drop left inside of my glass case.
It was one such day when the once smooth hands which were now cracked and dry from the neverending sun reached down and picked me up again. But this time I was not kissed, was not tipped over and thrown carelessly back into the sand. Instead, something rough with grains of salt was forced into my mouth and through my neck. It sat inside of me like a soldier waiting for orders. No order was given. Yet the wrinkled hands began to move, and I watched the sand drift past as I was carried down the length of the beach.
With a swift motion, the hands were gone and I was flying, flying into the waves. Water drifted up over me and filled me, but the cloth stayed obediently inside of me as we began our journey through the currents.