Pebbles
Once there were two
vintage apothecary jars.
This one I kept, the other one I gave
as a sharing of my heart,
filled with water and ocean pebbles
clinking against the thick glass—
Jersey shore pebbles, iridescent
shades of taffy, cotton candy,
caramel, mocha—
each one a remembrance
of an encounter
with the ocean—
vibrant and sparkling like
smooth young bodies lying
on the sand, wet skin glistening
in the summer sun.
But the water
has long since evaporated,
and the cork stopper
won’t budge now,
and the pebbles are pallid
shades of yellow, grey, brown.
And the jar I gave away?
Maybe lying dusty
in a storage unit, or forgotten
in a bottom drawer, or long ago
discarded, crushed by the metal jaws
of a trash truck, pebbles scattered
in a midwest landfill
far from the ocean.
Pebbles - for R.
A vintage apothecary jar filled with pebbles
sits in my meditation space
alongside an old photo of my parents
at the Jersey shore. The thought arises:
There was another jar
given as a gift of love
to a boy long ago, who has
long ago forgotten me. But then—
It’s a funny thing, you said.
I have this jar...
Oh wait— I gave you one too?
I had forgotten. And you had forgotten
that it was a gift from me.
The water in this jar has long since
evaporated, and the cork stopper
won’t budge— which may all be
a metaphor for aging, but maybe
it isn't. Maybe these Jersey shore pebbles—
now pleasing, muted shades of taffy,
cotton candy, fudge, butterscotch,
coffee with cream—are not metaphors
for anything about us. Maybe
they are simply reminders of our love
for one another, and how we
forget things
and then remember
what matters