by John R Platt
There's a store, out of the way, on a side street two towns over, that sells nothing but jars.
Its clientele are mainly women and gardeners, looking to preserve their fruits and vegetables for future consumption. Other than that, they sell to just a few local kids, looking for jars to preserve the night's catch of lightning bugs.
And then there's me.
I put in a special order.
They took my request as a sign of faith, faces glowing, happy to be given the chance, excited by the challenge.
It's been four months now.
We tried one jar imported from Bolivia, and then another, from Japan. And then one more. And so on. Some worked better than others, but none quite satisfies.
None quite preserves my childish sense of whimsy.
Oh well, we'll keep trying. I'm just afraid that we'll have to keep trying smaller and smaller jars...
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