The thing about transparent
containers is that you always
know how much you have left—
detergent or milk or rice or pills—
and so when the line sinks
toward the bottom you can
fill it up again before it’s gone
completely. Last week a girl
younger than me passed away
suddenly. All the stories about
her were love stories. Just a few
days before that, I said I don’t feel
old. Now I wonder to what extent
that’s true. Sometimes I wish the
opaque vessel of life could turn
jellyfish clear even for the briefest
moment, enough for me to know
how much I have left—nighttime
drives or sunset walks or inside
jokes or strings of words that mean
something; when my husband
walks through the door and asks
what smells so good as I stand
over a sizzling pan; when my dog
lays his head on my lap or plops
himself at my feet or grins at me
the way I do when a friend reminds
me of a memory we’ve made in
the years we’ve known each other.
I wonder what I should rush to
replenish. Even if it’s not going
to run out anytime soon. I wonder
what, in the end, I’ll realize was
never enough. And hopefully, in the
same delicate breath, what was.
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