The Jar

She kept her life in a tin jar.

The sun was slowly rising and light flooded the room through the open window. Particles of dust sparkled in the sunshine and whirled carelessly through the air. The room had white walls and a worn out wooden floor. A set of white tulle curtains fluttered in the soft breeze, and the silence was broken only by birdsong and the quiet rustle of cotton sheets. A single woman sat up slowly in a bed that stood in the middle of the room. The bed springs creaked as she grabbed onto the cast iron headboard for support and stood up. Leaning against one of the walls was a mirror, and the woman studied her reflection in it. Her nightgown was sleeveless and reached her feet, and her long, silver-grey hair hung in a braid over her shoulder. She caressed her cheek with one of her fragile hands. The skin that had once been as smooth as marble and the envy of women everywhere had become wrinkled and paper-thin. Her eyes and lips were the worst after a life filled with laughter and a few too many cigarettes. Behind the wrinkles was a pair of emerald green eyes. They had lost some of their original spark, but it was her eyes that reminded her of who she had once been.

The woman’s cane thudded rhythmically against the floor as she walked through the house. With the exception of the bedroom, the rooms were filled with sheet-covered furniture and cardboard boxes. It was a small house; on the upper floor was a bedroom and a guestroom separated by a long, narrow landing. The stairs were wooden and creaky after many years of being trod on. The lower floor had a living room and, after a narrow hallway, a small kitchen with a stove, refrigerator and a rickety table with two chairs. A window looked out onto an overgrown garden and other houses. The woman never stayed longer than necessary in the little kitchen, especially not in the mornings. While she waited for the kettle to boil she opened one of the cupboards and took out the tin jar she brought wherever she went. She put it in her handbag and poured herself a cup of tea.

The asphalt was wet after a night of heavy rain; the sun’s rays reflected in the puddles of water and the entire neighbourhood smelled like spring. The woman glanced at her watch, and the rhythmic thump-thump of her cane picked up tempo. Just visible over the hill was a steeple. All around her the trees were bursting with green leaves, and swallows and sea gulls passed above her. Petals that had fallen from the blossoming trees whirled around her feet as she passed houses that looked much like her own. It was Sunday morning; families were climbing into cars and driving off for a day’s adventure, men in bathrobes were getting their morning papers and dogs were barking gleefully as their owners took them out for their morning walk. The woman took a couple of deep breaths and, for a moment, rejoiced in being alive.

The church was a medieval building with two massive iron handles on a set of solid oak doors. She grabbed a hold of the right handle and pulled the door open, stepping into the familiar atmosphere that waited behind it. The chapel was bursting with activity; there had been a wedding, and now floral arrangements and candles were being packed away in preparation for Sunday mass. Before starting her work, she fished the tin jar out of her handbag and placed it on a small table by the door; the woman would sit on the chair next to the table, welcoming people while handing them programmes and hymnbooks. She got a broom and fruitlessly tried to sweep up the rice that had been thrown over the happy couple in the hope that it would bring them luck; despite her old, broken back and aching joints, the woman kneeled and started picking up one grain of rice at a time.

She sat down on the chair next to the door, exhausted. Mass was about to begin, but before the churchgoers started coming through the doors the woman opened her tin jar and studied its contents for a moment; a smile started spreading across her face and stayed there as she greeted the visitors. She shook their hands and gave them their hymnbooks, asked the children about school and listened carefully to their replies. She was no longer the lonely, sad woman she was perceived to be; she was the happy, outgoing woman she had once been.  

One morning the sky was overcast with grey clouds. The window in the bedroom was shut tight and the tulle curtains were drawn. White cotton sheets lay meticulously folded on the bed, and the mirror had been covered. A tin jar lay opened on the floor. Scattered around it was what looked like trash, but at a closer look it was a haphazard collection of photographs, letters and tickets that had been emptied out onto the floor " photographs of glistening eyes and smiling, red lips, letters filled with passion and emotion from past lovers, tickets from plays or train journeys... The tin jar told a story: the woman’s life-story.

On the bedside table stood a glass, almost empty of water and next to it an empty pillbox. A sheet of thick, coarse paper lay folded on the edge of the table, and on it was written a single sentence:

“Forget who you thought I was - remember me for who I really am.”

Author's Note

This was originally written in Swedish, one of my first languages (the other one being English). It's the first time I've attempted translating my own work from one language to the other, I hope I did an OK job out of it...

Reviews

[Stanley Wilson]

what a lovely story sad ending though enjoyed it

[Eagle Cruagh]

You have painted an exquisite picture for
all to see (read). YOu have done this painting
in a language that most of us fail to understand,
but more important, you have written in a langage
that many of us are becoming familiar with , the
language of hu;manity.
'Thank you,'

----- Eagle Cruagh

[Samuel Dickens]

I find this a very warm, "human" kind of story. Well-written, I in no way sensed any kind of problems with language.

[Admiral Kirk]

Wow, this is really well done. The whole life in a jar thing was genius... You painted a beautiful picture of your setting in the beginning, I love your use of adjectives. Overall, this story was great. :)

[Distant horizons]

Excellent write. really enjoyed this. it reminds me of the motto "every picture tells a story" your picture was beautifully drawn.

[Matt "Mickey" Denney]

Your ability to translate must be very well. :)