The Glass Jar

My younger sister, then three, Caught a bug-like creature in our long-forgotten backyard. Spreading stardust: the awkwardly tiny little fairy Flew free in her room—searching every corner for gloom to discard It sang merrily to her: a wondrously gifted, joyous bard. My younger sister, nineteen at that time, Rushed inside her dull, uneducated boyfriend’s second-hand car. The fairy she caught stirred weakly: no longer flighty like an old wooden chime In one of summer’s windless days, it sat inside that gradually shrinking glass jar. Every night, I saw it longingly stared at my sleeping sister; then at stars afar. My younger sister, now thirty, arrives; tired, sick, mad. Clumsily she knocks a chair and drops her thick, heavy files of papers. “Guess what, I also broke an empty jar at home,” Mad, but clearly not sad. “Wonder why I even kept a stupid empty jar,” All colors have escaped her like vapors. I smile; but I know: she has, long ago, lost that tiny happiness that sings and capers.