jars

Empty jars of jam serve as reminders
sitting in the fridge on the door
taking up space that might otherwise
be alloted for more usable items.
They have dates and locations etched into them.
I can open them and smell the past.
I can hold them in my hands and feel the curve of time.
The lids are sticky.
Sometimes I wonder if I should be keeping them.

The chili plants in the garden want harvesting.
I saw them this morning from my balcony
pointing red fingers in all directions.
Maybe I should make them into jam.
The only drawback is that chilies
never did understand cherries,
and the last thing I want is to
create strife in the jam community,

the little city of glass,
skyscrapers full of sugary lips
sculpted with steel spoons
awaiting demolition papers.

They stay, preserved and cool,
strangers to fresher neighbors.
They are the kinds of things at which
chilies are prone to scoff,
their ragamuffin ways dissenting
to fruits more demure.

I cannot choose between them,
but my fridge is running out of space,
and the chilies will rot and die,
fall and become coated in the evidence of snails.
No one likes to be crawled over.
So, I must put away the jars.
Should I rinse them and box them
and stick them in the attic,
or let bygones be bygones
and rely on memories to see me through
the winter months?

For a fun story about my life go to http://pinatstorytime.blogspot.com