She only drank out of jam jars- tiny, ridge-lipped containers covered with raised glass berries. The smooth patterns depicted the type of fruit each jar formerly housed, a vitreous Braille that my fingertips tried time and again to decipher. Everything in her apartment was shrunken and makeshift, a gypsy dollhouse filled with rescued curios and ritual.
Those miniature vessels promoted her instinct to fawn, to allocate. She was forever springing from her antique stool to gift houseguests with fresh supplies of little sips, measured tokens of her love.
And it was with that same ceremony that she contained me, precious restraint still visible in the dark. Her command was sweet, like jars of phantom fruit realized. Possessive preservation- it was all she knew.
Photo: Nynewe
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