The Empty Jar(87)

We love.

We laugh.

We hope.

And we keep filling our jar.

That’s what we did. All of us in my family. We did while my mother lived. We did while my father lived. And we have since they’ve been gone.

I don’t doubt that my children will do the same. And their children. And their children’s children. Then one day, we’ll all be a whole family again. In heaven. But until then…

With great effort, I rise from the chair, my knees creaking in protest. I ignore their groans as I’ve done for quite some time now. I’d much rather be the spry young thing that I once was, but I’m making my way toward the end, not the beginning. So until my day comes, I’ll keep getting up. I’ll keep laughing and loving and living the life that my parents and my handsome Robbie and I always envisioned. Filling my jar. And I’ll keep catching lightning bugs with my kids. And their kids. And their kids, which is what I’m about to do now.

Because that’s what we do.

We keep going on until we go on no more.

I fold the jar into the bend of my arm, holding it against my side like a football made of crystal. I don’t trust my aged fingers to grip it as I navigate the tricky steps. I figure this is the best way to ensure that it—and I—make it back downstairs in one piece.

As soon as my foot touches the hardwood at the bottom of the last step, I hear the excited squeals of my great-grandchildren. My heart swells to near bursting, and I’m overcome with the gratitude that I get to share this tradition with yet another generation. I hope it never fades, no matter how many kids of kids of kids my line has. I smile, knowing it would thrill my father to no end that I was keeping the chase of the lightning bugs alive. Even more, it would thrill my mother.

For a few seconds, I see her face. Lena Grant. She’s smiling at me through the flat, bluish screen of a monitor. I grew up seeing her that way. She was my mother, a bright spot in my life, even though I don’t remember meeting her in person. She’s proof that we can live on long after our bodies have given up.

A different face bursts through my mother’s, this one real. Molly’s sweet, shining countenance causes the image of my mom to tremble and shiver, then disappear like ripples in a pond. My great-grandbaby is who I see as I step out into the backyard, into the waning light.

At four, she’s the youngest of all my great-grandkids and the spitting image of her grandfather, my son. As she stares up at me, her eyes wide with exhilaration, I see the brilliant eyes of my husband looking back at me. That single trait of his runs strong in our family. He’s proud as a peacock that his genes are so robust. He often teases and clucks about his manhood. Like I have for sixty-some years, I just roll my eyes, but he always makes me smile.

I look up and see the object of my ruminations sitting in an Adirondack chair, throwing a ball with my eldest. The scene warms me, as it always has. Gratitude runs through me like the crystal clear waters of a mountain creek. I need to thank my Robbie for loving me. I’ve said it dozens of times over the years, but it always needs saying. That man and his love… Well, they changed my life.

One day, I’ll get to thank my parents, too. When I get to heaven, I’ll go straight and thank my father for staying with me as long as he did. He shaped the woman I am today.

Then I’ll find my mother. I’ll hug her, for the first time since I was only a few days old. I’ll hug her, and I’ll feel her touch and see her smile, and I’ll thank her for giving her life for mine. For teaching me about sacrifice before I could even spell. For showing me what a woman will do for those she loves.

Anything.

The answer is anything.

A woman will do anything for the people she loves.

And as long as she has love, her jar will always be full.





Dear Reader

As you may have guessed, this story is very personal to me. Although Lena’s tale is her own, it was inspired by events in real life. My life.

It all began with the love between my parents. Their love was true.

Deep.

Lasting.

Just like Nate and Lena’s. It was real.

My parents would’ve been married for fifty-three years if my father had lived for twenty-four more days. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His body just couldn’t make it any further. But that doesn’t mean their love died.

It didn’t.

It will live on to inspire and comfort the rest of us until we are long gone, too. Love is like that.

It lingers.

My father died on December 4, 2015, of stage four esophageal cancer. While this story is completely fictitious and Lena’s cancer is a slightly different variety than Dad’s, they suffered in much the same ways. We, my family and I, watched my father fight a war he couldn’t win. We watched him struggle to get his food down, battle to keep his disease under control, and all the while he lost more and more weight. We saw the toll the cancer took, how it crept in and ravaged everything it touched. When it’s widespread like this, into the liver particularly, it affects more than just one body system, especially sensitive ones like the brain.

Several of the scenes in The Empty Jar were directly inspired by events that I personally observed.

I lived them.

I stayed up many a night with my father while he rearranged things on the counter and worked on projects only he could see. He, too, was getting his affairs in order. He once told me that he had too much to do to die. I think that’s why he worked so hard in his last days, even though he never left the house and never completed any of those tasks. He wanted to leave everything in good order for those he loved most—us.