Jar Lid Ghost

The pickle jar fought back,

its metal rim cold,

ridged, unyielding.

My wrist strained,

the small pop in my knuckle

a phantom echo.

Then,

without thinking,

my fingers found that exact grip,

the one she’d use,

thumb braced, palm pressed hard,

a twist from the shoulder.

It came loose,

with a familiar sigh.

And there,

in the slight ache of my own joints,

in the faint print left by the lid,

I saw her,

her hands on mine,

a ghost in the kitchen.