I want to get five glass jars, the old fashioned canning kind. The kind with "Ball" written on the side in cursive.
I'll clean them 'til they shine and set them on a shelf over our oven. In the center of our home. Where everyone passes and everyone stops. Where conversations happen; small ones about chopping onions, and big ones about having babies. Where there are arguments about who should make the salsa (me, because you never get it quite right) or who should wash the dishes (me, again, only this time because I never do them. Never.) The heart of our home. Where things are made, and cleaned, and put away. Where the messes are flung about, but somehow never really last.
When you walk through the door they'd be some of the of the first things you'd see, these jars. All lined up and shining. Filled with marbles and pennies. Shells from beaches and pebbles from trips. The odds and ends that build a life - that build up over the years. The small memories and moments that become us. That define us. That write out our story.
They'd be our hopes and dreams, our plans we've made. They'd be all the walks we took on Sunday afternoons, all the luck we found on Wednesday evenings trapped between footfalls. All the silly games we played in the dark of the night when one of us couldn’t sleep.
All but one.
One I'd keep empty. Filled with magic. Filled with the shadows of lightening bugs. The breath of birthday candles. The laughter of pure joy and surprise.
That one, that one would always be overflowing. Shining and clean. Ever room for more.
7 years ago