A Place for You

Jessamyn Wolff

In the home goods section of TJ Maxx

I waste time looking at fake succulents, 

bending their sticky but pretty leaves

in all directions. Across the aisle, rows 

of decorative glass jars line the shelves. 

A large one stands out, flowers painted

at its bottom shine pink in the fluorescent 

light. As I hold it, kids and their moms 

push red carts around me, employees 

hurry by with loops full of shrill keys. 

I determine that, yes, all I have left of you 

will fit in this glass jar—pictures of you 

at the piano, the plastic Pokémon won 

in a bet, your charcoal drawings if I fold 

them. The woman working the counter 

compliments my choice as she wraps it

in pale, crinkling paper—this’d be great 

for a candle, it really catches the light. 

Outside, the sun’s been smeared with

silver clouds. I walk home underneath 

its haze, crying so hard I think my eyes 

will burst and fall like rain at my feet.