The Unopened Jar

Her knuckles, white,

then red, around the lid.

A small moan,

tight in her throat, hid.

The pickle jar, stubborn glass,

would not give in.

She turned it once,

a tremor in her arm, a thin,

lost effort, a sad grin.

She used to snap them open.

Used to.

She sighed, a sound

like dry leaves. Held it out.

"Here," she said.

Her palm, loose,

veins like blue rivers,

a tired route.

And I saw her face

in the afternoon light,

smaller.

Not the sharp edge I recalled,

but rounded. Faded,

a muted hue.

Like a photograph left too long

in the sun,

a pale view.