when she was young, my mother decided to put
all her mistakes in jars. She
lined them up on the windowsill and on shelves in the cellar
& then grew up.
Once I followed the cat down the stairs and saw those dusty rows of experience,
and it frightened me to
count them out. i want to ask my mother
why she never taught me how to can,
but
something about all those jars
makes me think
i
understand.