Pickle

Wayne likes to pickle things. He has a taste for crunchy and briny snacks. And when the sun hits them just right, the glass containers filled with cucumbers, carrots and cauliflower make his house glow in bright, delicious colors. It is then that Wayne is overcome by a sense of purpose. Something about the pickles makes him feel alive.

One afternoon he has an idea. He rummages through his desk and finds some index cards and a Sharpie. Then he sits at the dining room table in clear view of the radiant jars. On the first card, and in all caps he writes my childhood. On the second, Olivia. On the next few he writes my body, my artwork and my paycheck, respectively. He places each card into an empty Mason jar, screws on the bands and lids, then lines the jars along the top of his kitchen cabinet. He stands back with his arms crossed and nods his head.

Now, when folks come over they immediately notice the jars and say, “Hey Wayne, the place looks great! And wow, looks like you’ve been busy!”

The jars have heft. The raised cursive lettering is smooth and hard. They are uniform in both shape and size and loom like sentries. These five jars stand alongside other jars in various stages of pickling and contain what’s most important to Wayne. And having them in a glass jar alters how he looks at them. He now sees these five things as something a little bit closer to beautiful.

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