Morning Light Through Old Glass

The blue jar I buried in the garden has weathered clear—that specific blue my sister wore the summer before she left, before we learned what "away" truly means.

I dig, my hands wet with April rain. The glass holds nothing but its own transparency, which is close enough to prayer, close enough to what I meant to save.

Light fractures through the bottom, a prism I never knew I'd made back when colors had weight, when forgetting was still something you had to practice.

The air tastes like turned earth and time. The jar sits lighter now on the fence post, bleached by suns I wasn't here to witness, still blue but almost honest, almost ready to let go.