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.
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