On Testudines

Tinkling rivulets of light rolled off the solid carapace. Grandpa Mac looked through his round glasses- two wrinkled old raisins, the sugar crusting at their edges, looking out from behind perfect polished glass plates rimmed in a delicate gold.
My Grandpa Mac is a turtle and I feed him red bell peppers that my mother chops up for me. He is a box turtle.
He is a beautiful little pebble among a sea of rocks. Rocks waiting to slide over each other and crush him, his stony shell suddenly a brittle robin's egg.
Oh jesus, what if he was crushed;