- YOU BREAK I FIX NEAR ME NOW HOW TO
- YOU BREAK I FIX NEAR ME NOW SERIAL NUMBER
- YOU BREAK I FIX NEAR ME NOW FULL
But there is one last definition I catch, at the bottom. I look up the word “spell.” It means the letters that form a word in correct sequence, and it means a period of time, and it means a state of enchantment. The beast turns back into a prince, the kingdom wakes up, and a girl’s tears dissolve the shards of glass in a boy’s cold heart. What breaks most often in fairy tales are spells, and when a spell is broken the world is restored. Noah and I study it for a whole entire minute. “It’s where the batteries are supposed to go.” “But for what?” I ask. “Mama,” say my sons one thousand times a day, “can you fix this?” Hulk’s head has fallen off, or the knees of a favorite pair of pants are torn, or the bike chain has snapped, or there is slime on Eli’s favorite polar bear, or the switch is stuck, or the spring broke off, or Superman’s cape is hanging by a thread, or … “What even is this?” “Oh, that?” says Noah, my nine-year-old. To know your history is to carry all your pieces, whole and shattered, through the wilderness. Why didn’t we just leave the broken tablets behind? What good is all this carrying? I imagine the weight of the broken tablets, and the heat, and the thirst, and the frustration. I imagine the broken tablets leaning against the unbroken ones telling them secrets only broken things know. In Exodus, the first set of ten commandments (broken by Moses) is not buried but placed in the Aron Hakodesh (the holy ark) beside the new, unbroken tablets, which the Jews carry through the wilderness for forty years. At a red light, I put the shard in the glove compartment and forget about it for days.
YOU BREAK I FIX NEAR ME NOW HOW TO
I have no idea where any of them live, or how to fix anything, or what to do with this shard of glass. I leave the children cradling their broken countries. I don’t want to stay to see what happens next.
It sounds like an ice storm, but the sky is blue and the children are dry as bones. Plink! Plink! Plink! Shards of glass are falling out of the children’s countries, too. A rainbow, just for a second, falls over the children. I pick the shard up and hold it to the sunlight.
A little shard of glass falls out of my country with a plink. I don’t ask them where their mothers are or how they got here or how they will get home. “I’m sorry,” I say too quietly for any of the children to hear. I want to drive them all home but they’re all holding countries and there are far too many of them. “It once was,” says the first child, “but now it’s closed.” The children hold their countries closer, like a doll or an animal. “Is this U Break It We Fix It?” they ask.
YOU BREAK I FIX NEAR ME NOW FULL
I’ve come here for nothing … again.” When I look up the whole parking lot is full of children holding countries. “Out of business.” I text my husband: “U Break It We Fix It is closed. I shift the country to one arm and try to peer in, but it’s shuttered and dark. “Store’s gone out of business,” says the child. A child, too young to be alone, is out in front holding a broken country, too. It’s heavy, but I manage to carry it through the parking lot leaving behind a trail of seeds and the crisp scent of democracy and something that smells like blood or dirt. The next week, I return to U Break It We Fix It with a whole entire country. He has already disappeared into the back of the store. Even if all We ever do is just try to fix It, We should try. Even if it takes the handiwork of one hundred mothers with long white beards and God inside their fingertips, We should fix it. “But if I break It, it says We fix It.” I point to the sign that is the name of the store. I read the numbers, and We silently types them into a computer.
YOU BREAK I FIX NEAR ME NOW SERIAL NUMBER
“Possibly months.” To be sure We asks me to read the serial number off the back of the iPad. We says the soldering work required would cost more than a new iPad. I hold up the broken screen so We can see It, and a little shard of glass drops to the floor with a plink. We sprays sanitizer on the spot I touched and wipes it dry with a paper towel. We will fix it.Ī man in rumpled clothes emerges. “One minute,” says a raspy voice from the back of the store. “Hello? Hello?” I wait a few minutes before calling out again. The counter glows white, and the walls are empty. I am inside U Break It We Fix It holding my sons’ shattered iPad.
Sabrina Orah Mark’s column, Happily, focuses on fairy tales and motherhood.
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