Jar Lid

The kitchen light, fluorescent, harsh,

caught the dust motes dancing, slow,

over his hands. He took the jar,

that familiar red lid,

a pickle jar, dill,

like they always had.

His knuckles, bone white,

veins like cords under thin skin,

turned. And turned again.

A grunt, then another, softer.

His eyes, usually sharp,

glazed over a little,

looking at his own hands

like they'd betrayed him.

He sighed, a sound

like air leaking from a tire.

Set the jar down.

"I just can't," he said.

My mother reached,

opened it, no sound, no strain.

He looked away.

Smaller.

Just like that.

Like someone deflated a memory.