Knuckle-Deep

The lid won't budge.

I’m straining against the glass

until the skin over my knuckles

turns the color of a wet sidewalk.

In the four o'clock sun

the veins on the back of my hand

stand out like a roadmap

to a place I’ve already been.

I see her there—

the yellowed ridge of a callus

where the paring knife sat for thirty years

peeling the life out of potatoes.

My grip just quits

and the jar stays sealed.