Carol Cail

I spread my white handkerchief on the curb, set my white vinyl purse on top of it, hefted the brick doorstop I'd brought from home, and sidearmed it through the jewelry store window. For several moments, the only sound was glass raining on the pavement. Then there was no sound at all except the night wind skating along the badly lit sidewalk.

It was such a quiet, lovely moment after the cacophony of destruction, I almost forgot the next step. Part of the pleasure of the moment was my exaltation that here I was, seventy years old, and I'd still found something new to experience.