Photo by Nguyễn Hiệp on UnsplashI have a collection of empty that I keep in mason jars. They fill the pantry, crowd the counter, spread across the table and my dresser. Sometimes I light a candle beside the jar on my nightstand and watch the shadows flicker on the ceiling.
I seem to look up a lot. Some evenings, I tuck a jar under each arm, go out back, and stare at the stars.
When it’s hot, I take a few jars from the refrigerator and slip them between the sheets. I’ve thought about heating some in the oven in winter, but I’m afraid they’d break.
I leave the blinds open when the moon is bright so the jars glow with cold, white light.
I had a cat, a feral that began coming around. I put out food and water. One day, I propped open the back door with a mason jar of empty and left treats on the kitchen floor. The cat came in. It stayed. Sometimes it slept with me. I’d stroke between its eyes and fall asleep to its purr.
It jumped on the kitchen table and broke a mason jar. I gave the cat to a church that needed a mouser.
The collection started in a room upstairs. Then spread. The room has a small desk with a computer. And jars. There’s a poster of some guy with tattoos and a guitar. A twin bed with mason jars and a stuffed bear. A makeup stand with a round mirror and scattering of lipsticks, tiny brushes, and things I don’t understand. Things I don’t understand.
By the mirror is a phone. I keep it charged. I call it often.
