She

She is encased in a glass jar. Like an antique, dusted moth. I am afraid to let her out. She might crack. She may fall apart in my hands, her memories dusting my fingers. She sits there. So silently, so well trained. Kneeling gracefully under the pepper tree in the front yard, she traces the sandy figure eight over and over. Dandelions brush against her thigh in the breeze. As soon as I see the flies buzz near her sugar crusted eyelashes, I have to look away.

I want to throw the jar.

Photo Courtesy of Angela LeBlanc