The Memory of Glitter
I wasn’t thinking about the glitter when things began to fall apart.
Years earlier, it started with a speck. I assumed it was something I touched.
But then I saw more—on my wrists, my forearms, the backs of my hands. Not just a trace. It was everywhere.
I told my wife. She thought I was joking—until she saw it herself.
She was sitting on the bed, ready to go to sleep. I sat beside her and held out my arm. She moved her fingers along it carefully, as if afraid of breaking a spell.
That’s when I started trying to explain it. I checked the soap, the towels, the gifts my in-laws had brought back. I even looked at their luggage.
Our kids—who’d been hugged and held by my in-laws—had no shimmer. No one else in the house did. Just me.
My in-laws had just returned from a pilgrimage near Cleveland, where the Virgin Mary had reportedly appeared. Over dinner, they spoke about what they’d experienced—subtle lights, an overwhelming sense of calm, and, they said, sudden flecks of light appearing on their own hands.
I couldn’t dismiss their experience, but I didn’t share their certainty either.
What stayed with me was this: I—the most doubtful one in the house—was the only person glittering.
I never did figure out what caused it. I kept turning it over in my mind. And then, when I couldn’t make sense of it, I let it go.
Or at least, I thought I had.
The kids grew. Work kept me busy. There were plans to make, routines to follow, things to be grateful for.
And then, much later, everything unraveled.
The company I’d given nearly thirty years to collapsed overnight.
Our savings, tied to the company, disappeared with it. We left the home that had held our lives and moved into a small apartment that felt strangely temporary.
I began the long, uncertain process of looking for work—sending applications, taking interviews, and waiting for replies that came back as rejections—or nothing at all.
And one day I sat frozen at my computer, with the sinking feeling that no matter what I did next, it didn’t seem to make a difference.
What do I do now?
What am I worth without the work?
There was no answer. Just silence and the sound of the fridge humming.
I kept waking in the middle of the night, heart racing, replaying the past—going over what I could have done differently.
The quiet confidence we’d built our lives around—work hard, stay loyal, things will turn out—was gone.
In its place was a question we couldn’t answer.
Before, I would’ve prayed.
I grew up Catholic. I learned to turn to God when life went wrong—and to say thank you when it didn’t. Prayer was a reflex. A way to ask for protection, for relief, for things to be set right.
Over time, I began to question the version of God I’d always trusted. Why would God answer my prayers—for a clean result, a successful meeting, or simply a calmer day—when so many others were living through things I couldn’t imagine?
A God who steps in for some and stays silent for others—it just didn’t add up.
So I prayed less. Or not at all.
And for a while, there was nothing to replace it. Just life.
And I stayed there.
But beneath it all—the fear and uncertainty—something in me began to shift.
One morning, I sat on the balcony of our apartment with my coffee and watched the sky lighten with the sunrise. The sound of the fountain filled the courtyard, steady—like a river. A car passed in the distance. The air was cool and clean—fresh in a way that made me pause.
What if we weren’t seeing this clearly? What if the labels we’d trusted—success, failure, good, bad—had never been the only way to look at it?
Maybe this life—the one that felt like it had gone wrong—wasn’t broken after all.
It just wasn’t the one we thought we deserved.
The thought felt radical. But with it came a kind of stillness—just enough to breathe again.
Then, before long, the familiar voice returned—pushing back: This isn’t helping. You’re giving up. Keep moving, or everything will slip away.
I didn’t know which voice was telling the truth: was I getting closer to something real—or was I drifting away from something I couldn’t afford to lose?
Part of me wanted to let go. Another part refused.
And then—suddenly—the memory returned.
The glitter.
I found myself going over it again—just as I had all those years ago—trying to piece together what might have caused it, expecting it to finally make sense.
But nothing came.
This time, I didn’t push it any further.
That’s what struck me: how quickly we try to explain things away—how uncomfortable we become when something sits unresolved.
I let it be what it was: strange, fleeting, out of place.
The panicked voice rose again: You can’t think like this. You need to pull yourself together.
The memory quieted the voice—not with an answer, but with a calm certainty. I didn’t fight the fear. I watched it pass.
I’d always imagined peace would come after the crisis—when things were fixed, or made sense.
But nothing was fixed. Still, something was different.
Not because I understood—but because I wasn’t reaching. I wasn’t resisting.
I was just here.
Like the glitter: it didn’t explain a thing. It was just there.
I still don’t have a job. I still don’t understand why this happened.
But I can see it now.
That’s enough.
Luis Chamorro is a writer from Nicaragua, now living in Miami. His work explores memory, identity, and the search for meaning in ordinary life, often blending emotional realism with philosophical inquiry. He holds degrees in Engineering and Business Administration from the University of Texas at Austin and Carnegie Mellon University. Before turning to writing, he led international operations in the coffee industry.
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