Fireflies trapped in a jar, the days, prose

Leaving Germany late October for 90 days in the UK

Some of the days flew by so fast, others you could trap in a jar. They were on the internet or in your computer on a spinning carousel, going back as far as you could right up to the present. They moved the way old style animated films do, “motion pictures,” each pane a still. I had those stills and they were like a deck of playing cards scattered on the floor. The one with Charlotte’s face framed in the window of the school bus pulling away. Those days compiled. I saw myself in the mirror and it got worse, but maybe it’s just been a long winter. I got older. I regard myself over the hand sink and snort, slap my face with the tap water, shake it off. I walk in the mornings to scrounge up something to write, hide my soul in uncommon places, come back to the jar to see what’s left. I thought the ground was so wet it squished like a sponge, the air pungent with it. I walked Charlotte to the end of the road and turned around, to start my day. I kept seeing her pull away.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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5 Responses to Fireflies trapped in a jar, the days, prose

  1. rossmurray1 says:

    That jar is so unreliable some days.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. ksbeth says:

    hard to hold onto what’s inside that jar

    Like

  3. walt walker says:

    Last line makes me sad, like when me second grader stomped upstairs mad at both me and my wife for telling her no about the sleep away camp. First time she’d ever done that, gotten so mad she left to be alone in her room. Felt like the end of an era.

    Liked by 1 person

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