I’m a hoarder. I collect memories in jars by my bedside. Some have gathered dust, and others brim the top of the narrow neck, spilling out over the edges of Mason glass and onto the smooth dark wood of my night table. I separate them into useful categories – needed for future generations, stories for parties, mean things I’ve said, old locker combinations and tacky birthday presents. And in the morning hours, dawn shines through the jars of my memories, casting a rainbow around my bedroom and inserting fragments of truth into the fiction of my dreamland.