A story in a dream

She died on a Tuesday.

They sat in the kitchen. "I'm your father," he said. "I'm here Now"

Over and over.  Eleven days. Eleven days of the can opener twisting.  Putting water to boil. The glass jars, which you'd think would have been stained grape purple, tomato red, green bean. But now stood clear.  Like the day she'd brought them home, crowded across the table.

I'm your father. I'm here now.

Eleven days.

Now the wind sings through the spaces under doors. Twirling through the house, with nothing in its way except a pile of glass jars in the sink. Unstained.












It's a work in progress.