Glass Jar

IMG_4879

After the divorce and in the

throes, I walked along the

beaches of Southern California

sunset after sunset. I collected stones

and shells that I have kept in a

hand blown glass jar I found at a

rummage sale, green, cylindrical, with

air bubble imperfections as if to suggest a

frailty, perhaps a looming likelihood of

breaking open at

some point, though now,

twenty five years on my shelf,

holding steady to the

end of something, reminding me of

the beginning of everything.

A shell is one half of an older life.

A stone, a fragment of an older earth,

washed over smooth,

silent and waiting. A glass jar, like a

memory of experience, a mere form in which

to hold the artifacts of history,

once living, now

sacrament.

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