The Empty Jar by M. Leighton
Dedication
To my wonderful father, TEM, who used to catch lightning bugs with me when I was a little girl. The world is a lesser place without you in it. But my jar is no less full. You made sure of that while you were alive.
I love you, Dad. Always.
Until I see you again…
And to all of you who have lost someone you loved, This is for you.
Death is not the opposite of life, but part of it—Haruki Murakami
Prologue
Save a Prayer
In the attic, one day in the future
The dusty box lies open at my feet. The scent of ancient memories and dampness wafts up to tickle my nose. I hold back a sneeze as I rifle through Dad’s things, looking for the old Mason jar. It’s at the very bottom beneath an old baseball mitt, a Barbie doll, and a red puffy vest I can remember wearing a thousand years ago during one of my first snows. Carefully, I pull out the container, the glass cold against my palm, and I twist the lid. At eighty-six, my strength isn’t what it once was, but it’s my gnarled, arthritic fingers that can’t budge the rusted metal. I give up and stare into the empty jar for several long minutes, imagining it full of lightning bugs, a colony of brightly-lit bellies that lulled me to sleep more nights than I can count.
I glance back down into the box, looking for the note that went with this jar, but I don’t see it anywhere. Not that I really need it. Even after all these years, I can still recall what it said. I still remember the promise of the empty jar.
When you look at this jar, don’t think of it as empty. It’s not. It’s full of promise, promise of all the bright and beautiful things that it will hold. Your life is the same way. It won’t ever be empty if you can see the beauty that will fill it. You are full of promise, baby. Just like this empty jar.
Just as I remember the words of that note, I know exactly what I’ll find when I turn the jar up on its end. A message from a lifetime ago, etched into the glass.
I love you, baby girl. More than I could ever tell you. Don’t go to bed with dirty feet or an empty jar. Say your prayers every night, and never stop chasing the lightning bugs.
One Bed of Roses Nate
“Welcome to the next three months,” I announce with a flourish as I walk through the door. From behind my back, I produce a pair of plane tickets in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. My jacket is unbuttoned, my tie loosened and I’ve worked on schooling my smile into “casually relaxed” since I turned onto our street five minutes ago.
I knew that’s what my wife would need.
Helena crosses the kitchen toward me, pulling her robe tighter around her waist. I recognize the gesture for what it is—insecurity about her weight gain. She is deeply bothered by it. But me? I’ve hardly noticed. I love her every curve whether she does or not.
Over the years, I’ve watched her transform from a young woman coming into her own into a real woman who knows exactly who she is and what she wants. The changes have been both emotional and physical. She hasn’t been as fond of the physical ones as I have. I’ve loved the rounding of her hips and breasts, and I’ve appreciated the graceful aging of her oval face. Lena is one of the few who is actually getting better with time. Its passage is only enhancing the incredible beauty she’s always had. Or at least that’s how I see it.
Her cheeks have slimmed as the fullness of youth gave way to the leanness of maturity. Her lips spread more readily into a smile as the shyness of her younger years waned. And now the smooth skin around her eyes is crinkled with the lines of a thousand laughs, a sure sign of the life she’s lived. She calls them “badges of courage”. She even laughs when she says it. I think every one of them make her even more beautiful.
“Nate, are you sure this is what you want? We don’t have to…”
As she approaches, I see the uncertainty etched on her features. It’s there in the concerned pleat of her brow, the worried redness of her lips and the woeful brown of her eyes. My gorgeous wife is troubled.
I know every subtle nuance of her thoughts and her moods. They shine on the landscape of her face like a movie projected onto a blank white canvas.
I know that face.
I know it and all its hundreds of expressions like I know the vein work on the back of my hand. She’s never been able to hide what she was thinking or feeling.
Not from me.
I set the tickets and the champagne onto the corner of the spotless black granite island and take Lena gently by the shoulders.
“I swear it,” I pronounce firmly before she can rehash her million reasons why this isn’t a good idea. “They’ll be the best three months of our lives.”
“Well, maybe not yours,” she clarifies.
“Yes. Of mine, too. Promise me you’ll stop worrying about this.”