GREEN GLASS JAR

We all keep certain secrets in great green glass jars upon our respective shelves; some have big secrets, and others have smaller ones that are more for show than anything else. A guest in someone's life should know that it is considered impolite to peer at the contents of another person’s memories without permission. Looking on with clumsy stranger eyes at the swirling fog of a celebrated era now past, or the reminiscence of a love so desperately clung to, is a far greater faux pas than insulting their beliefs, or spilling wine on their rug.
The trouble with memories is that they're never exactly the way we remember them. It's more the impression of the moment from one person's perspective, and the longer you stare through the glass, the more distorted the memory becomes. The jar belongs to you, but the contents do not. Only the most foolhardy will actually pry out the cork and plunge his hand into the ether in an attempt to touch his own past one more time.
As he plunges his hand in, the dreamy, sweet contents are forced out into the room, and then it's too late. All he can do now is try to inhale the vapors for one last, heady lung-full.
So hold it in-- cough if you must-- and concentrate. Remember the way she used to knock on your window in the middle of the night, sometimes clad in only a pair of sandals and her omnipresent raincoat? You'd draw back the blinds and see her standing there before you without a tan line in sight, wearing that incredible smile. My God. You'd almost forgotten about her perfect, trademark smile.
Despite all the crap that was going on at the time, it was one of the best eras of your life. You see that now, don't you? Remember each place you made your own? The nights you crisscrossed the town in that tired, little Honda of hers, looking for one more secret place to make love, another kiss stolen in the glow of the dashboard lights. The nights belonged to you,.. and whatever tape she happened to have in the stereo.
Don't exhale yet, please. Just hold on for another minute more before it all begins to fade away. Remember her pre-storm colored eyes, and the breathy way she'd say "hello" to you. The way you used to watch her sleep with an idiot's grin on your face, wondering how you got to be so fucking lucky. "She chose me," you'd repeat quietly, over and over. "She chose me."
You can't hold on forever, I know. It's starting to slip away, so you put your hand over your mouth and, if nothing else, remember the look in her eye. No other woman has ever looked at you in such a hungry way, and no one ever will again. She made you a man, and you had a hard time telling her you loved her.
The jar sits empty on a shelf, except for a few dried flowers, an eagle's feather, and the necklace she used to wear that looked just like the one Jim Morrison wore.
It's a natural progression you simply have to accept. The party's over; time to box up the decorations and sweep away the confetti.
Yeah, I know it hurts. But get over it. And find something else to do with that jar.