Alive in Glass

I put it in the cabinet

and now I keep opening the door

to check if it's still happening.

The jar sits there,

cloth over the top,

and inside the mixture is doing something

I started on purpose.

Bubbles rising from the bottom,

slow and deliberate,

like something is learning to breathe.

It smells like nothing I've smelled before,

like yeast and time and intention,

like I actually fed something

and it decided to grow.

I check it in the morning.

I check it at lunch.

I check it before bed

like I'm waiting for it to send me a message,

like it might suddenly stop

and I'll have failed at this too,

at keeping something alive

in a jar on my counter.

But it keeps going.

The bubbles keep rising.

The smell keeps getting stronger,

more itself,

more certain.

This is what it looks like

when you create something,

when you combine ingredients

and step back and let them

become something else,

something that works.

I didn't have to do this.

No one was making me feed flour and salt

to a jar and watch it ferment.

But I did.

And now there's something alive

that wouldn't exist without me,

something that's working,

something that's becoming,

something that's right on schedule

and doing exactly what it's supposed to do.

I open the cabinet again.

The bubbles are still there.

Still rising.

Still proof that I can make something

that grows on its own,

that doesn't need me to check on it

every hour

but also doesn't mind that I do.