Little Glass Jars

Brightly colored leaves collected in little glass jars

Sealed tightly shut in soft little hands.

But nothing collected in its purest moment can be preserved forever.

Moisture and mold and rot and ruin creep into the little glass jars and into the soft little hands.

So is life.

So is pain.

So is my love for you.

We earnestly collected our brightly colored moments and stored them in the little glass jars filled with memories, thinking they could last forever.

But just like the autumn leaves, moisture and mold and rot and ruin came while we were sleeping and they devoured our memories until there was nothing left but a corpse in a casket.

This is how I remember you on the days when the air cuts through my flesh and whispers cold into my core.

But I like the cold.

It reminds me that I can feel something other than pain.

I yearn for it. I ache for the creaky bones and frosted fingertips of fall’s misty mornings. Because it takes the pain, and it turns it into something else.

Something sad, sure.

But something, nonetheless.

October, 2018