By Sophia Whitmore
She keeps her dreams in a jar on the windowsill
The lid is closed tight and sealed shut with wax
When the time is right, she will open it
That’s what she tells me
She didn’t open it tonight, as stars shimmered above her head
She didn’t open it last winter when the first snow began to fall
She won’t open it on the day her tired feet start running
And she leaves this city for somewhere less permanent
When I visit, I notice her sad eyes drift toward the jar
Still, it sits collecting dust and sunlight on her windowsill.
Does she remember its contents, I think to myself
Or has she forgotten the hopes her heart used to have?
She met me for our once-weekly dinner this Friday
For the first time in goodness knows how long
I need to work late, her messages would read.
My boss and his fist of iron. I have to cancel
But this Friday, she sat in the chair across from mine
Trembling hands clinging tightly to her menu
Voice quiet and softer than I remembered
I’m bored. I haven’t lived, and I’m so bored.
I took her hand in mine and looked into her eyes
I told her it was time to open the jar of dreams
She shook her head no. She could either dream or work
And there’s a stack of bills on her living room table
We sat there and ate our meals in silence
I hugged her goodbye and watched her drive away
Her soul was vibrant on the day we met
But that was before life dealt her its first blow
I lay awake that night, thinking of her sad face
Of her restless feet and her need to live
I pictured her working from nine to five and beyond
For the tyrant of a dull gray office
I did not ask myself why she’d walked down that path
She had been shoved aside and pushed onto it
She had never chosen to live that way
God, is anyone meant to live that way?
But rent will be due at the end of the month
And she needs a plumber to fix her kitchen sink
And her paychecks are smaller than they should be
Still, they’re enough to keep her alive
And that is why she doesn’t open the jar