Tight Lid

The red plastic lid,

slick with pickle juice,

bit hard into my palm.

I twisted,

veins standing out,

a small, frustrated grunt.

My grip kept sliding.

The jar stayed shut.

A sigh pulled out of me,

deep, familiar,

and in that sound,

I heard her.

"You can't rush a tight lid,"

she'd say, hands floury,

watching me try to hurry

the rising dough.

She meant more than bread,

or stubborn glass.

My fingers ached.

The jar, defiant

on the counter,

just stared back.