The Jar

I saw a video today—

a girl, her hands trembling around a jar she couldn’t open.

She ran to her father,

and with one twist,

he cracked it open like it was nothing.

She won.

He smiled.

And I cried.

Because I remember your hands too—

calloused, tired,

hands that tried to fix things

with too little time

and too much silence in between.

You lived in a rented room,

never a home.

Your love was measured in small rebellions—

gauges in my ears,

late-night drives,

anything Mom said no to,

you said yes—

maybe thinking

“yes” meant “I’m here.”

Maybe “yes” meant “please don’t forget me.”

I haven’t.

Not really.

Even if the memories come like fog through a cracked window.

Even if time and pain and drugs

have scattered them like dust across my mind.

You weren’t strong.

Not in the way I thought I needed.

Not the kind of hero that holds up a house,

but maybe the kind who lifts the jar

when no one else sees it slipping from your fingers.

Maybe you were always just trying—

trying to hold on,

trying to matter.

Maybe your love was quieter,

less obvious,

but still there.

Like a shadow that follows

even after the light changes.

I miss you.

Not perfectly.

Not always clearly.

But deeply.

And some days,

I wish I could run back to you,

jar in hand,

asking for help

just to feel your hands again.