The Mason Jar
I like to believe that in a few more months like this…my life will feel just as wiped clean of his memory.
A week ago he walked into my house and with his words, attempted to tear it all down. Brick by brick, the words flew and the foundation crumbled. It shook. It swayed.
But it stayed standing.
The mason jar I served him lemonade in still sits in the sink, filled with soapy water. It’s funny that as a woman, there was an inherent need in me to be a good hostess and serve him refreshments at the breaking of my own heart. I remember being excited to use my new mason jars. Excited to invite him into my new home and my new life. A life, as it turns out, he wanted absolutely no part of.
I cleaned my house for days in advance of his visit. I wanted everything to be perfect. There was no way I could have known that REAL would never be perfect to him. The vacant, flimsy exterior of a movie set was what he was looking for…not the weight of a real life. Glitter, not gold. Sparkle, not substance. He wasn’t built to go any deeper than the surface.
The mason jar I served him lemonade in still sits in the sink, exactly one week later. The lemonade is gone, and so is he. Maybe if I just keep the glass unwashed, it will undo the past week and the words that he said. Maybe the cracks in my heart will be filled, like the soapy water filling the glass that I swirl and swish, playing with the remnants of that painful day and watching the bubbles dance around the glass like he danced around my life for eight long years.
But do I want to undo it? Do I want to go back? And do I really want him to come back, knowing what I know now?
The answer rings loudly in my soul, different from the one my heart gives, but instantly I recognize it as truth.
Silently I wash the glass and put it away.