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Jane Douglas made a habit of checking the Caller ID. Upon answering the anonymous caller abruptly hung up. Assuming they dialed the wrong number she shrugged and returned the cordless phone to its cradle bumping a womb-like vase full of autumn flowers. It appeared to hit the floor in slow motion. Rich vibrant hues of red purple orange and yellow scattered while fine specks of crystal salted the maple wood. She mourned the disposable splendor as she selectively picked the large fractured pieces off the floor and tossed them into a wastebasket. Accident or not the shattered heirloom represented a run of unfavorable missteps.