Story of a Jar

 

 

He knew it. His destiny was not to be a carrier of peanut butter, jam, or even pickles.

“Pickle Jars are most cherished,” He remembered his mother telling him. “They are safe in cupboards for months and sometimes even years.”

“But I don’t want to be a pickle jar,” He said. “Or a cookie jar for that matter…”

“Did you lose your lid? You have no choice,” His mother said, shifting the burden of the cinnamon from side to side. “I won’t be here any longer; the new tenant will dispose me as soon as he finds us in here. I’m a discolored, old jar. You are still young…promise me you’ll seek the Pickle Road.”

 

Silence. Mother Jar was off the shelf that night. He knew he was different and as much as he tried to convince himself he’s delusional— like a water jar. He still wished he could carry colors, perfumes, and music. He wanted to see the world, to hold precious items with ancient stories to tell, to hug tiny seashells singing the rhymes of the ancient mariners, to shelter tiny buttons collected to be sewn to strange jackets that will roam the world.

“Truth, beauty, freedom, and love,” He screamed to himself. “I want to be a jar without a lid, without any restraints. I want to be a jar rolling from edge to edge, traveling the world.”

 

“I’m no pickle jar!” He said. “I’m a jar without burdens; I’m not the average kind of jar…I’m a Bohemian Jar.”