THE LINGERING GLITTER — Emilie Miller

Eccoci.

My first Substack post on THE LINGERING GLITTER.

Someone once told me a story about the day his youngest son lost his first tooth. To indicate the Tooth Fairy’s clandestine nighttime under-pillow-tooth-removal, he left a bit of glitter under his sleeping son’s pillow. He then sprinkled additional glitter on the floor of his son’s bedroom, leaving behind an ephemeral sparkling trail of proof.

As if to say: I was here. A tangible reminder: Magic has visited you.

He told me this heartwarming mess-as-evidence technique was also employed at Christmas— whereupon a jolly sloppy Santa left lots of scattered crumbs behind after an apparently very hasty and voracious consumption of cookies while on his most important work-all-night global route. “Santa is so messy!” He said his amazed and delighted children exclaimed.

And because I loved this person, I’ll sometimes think of these sweet stories. I will also, more randomly, wonder if his youngest son occasionally discovers leftover glitter in his room. Or perhaps what I am really wondering is if I, too, left behind any tiny trace. With the passing of time, there have inevitably been more lost teeth, more trails of scattered glitter.

And because glitter is basically impossible to get rid of—maybe, then, it has something in common with love. It often defies rational decision-making. Its risky—sometimes fleeting—beauty and guaranteed messiness. Its utter intractability. This supernatural ability to linger—perhaps beyond lifetimes. Its absence of biodegradability. Even after loss and letting go and vigorous cleaning and repair—it can and most likely will, unexpectedly reappear.

You’ll open a drawer and out it will suddenly spill. Or you will be vacuuming the carpet and there it will be. Something infinitesimal, shimmering, stuck to the bottom of your foot. How it got there and where it had been before, hiding, unnoticed—one of the great mysteries of life. A tiny flash. A vivid color.

The enveloping warmth of my mother’s deep rumbling laugh. The way my great-grandmother pursed her lips in joy while effortlessly shuffling a deck of well-worn cards. Awakening to the conjuror-of-glitter-and-cookie-crumb-trails, standing in my kitchen, flooded with summer morning sun, making coffee and slicing fruit, paper thin. All the lingering glitter. Reflecting an immeasurable light. Evidence of our living. These messy, beautiful lives.

A reminder. I was here. Magic has visited you.