Edgar’s Jars
The day started like any other. Ordinary and alone. Edgar ate eggs, over easy, and drank coffee, sitting on the tattered sofa. He listened to the dull whine of the refrigerator like some folks listened to Mozart or Stravinsky. Summer was in full swing. The afternoon sun turned the ground surrounding his trailer into burnt toast. Flowers wilted, the cricks dried up, and old dogs panted heavily in the shade.
It was during his second cup the idea struck. Maybe it was the prism of light dancing off the windchime and through the window partially blocked by a dead TV. But Edgar watched the multicolored mosaic sway across the carpet and knew what he had to do. He hoofed it to the kitchen and grabbed an empty jelly jar. He stood outside, sweating like a drunk dentist during a root canal, with the jar opened toward the sky. He watched the light slide down the glass sides of the jar. Edgar put the lid on and went back inside. He smiled at the jar’s saffron glow in the duskiness of the trailer.
For days on end, Edgar lugged his light everywhere he went. Buying stamps at the post office. Cashing his check at the grocery store. Hell, he even let his light have its own stool at the bar where he drank regularly. With a palpable pride, Edgar showed his light to anyone who’d listen, and even some of those who wouldn’t. That’s some good-lookin’ light you caught yourself there, Edgar, the people would say. One Saturday afternoon, Edgar took his light for a walk in the park. Jeanie sat down on the bench beside him. They smiled at each other, the jar of light between them, and that was that.
As their relationship blossomed, Edgar continued collecting jars of light on various occasions. Their first kiss. Their first argument. Their first vacation. The autumnal evening light when he finally proposed had an orangish tinge inside the jar. And the light from the June afternoon of their wedding was crystalline. Edgar stored all these jars in the spare room of his trailer, now their trailer. He wrote the dates on each lid with a black marker. Sometimes when Edgar felt bad, he’d visit the jars of light. He’d sit in the floor of that room for hours at a time, holding different jars, trying to remember the way the light of each day had made him feel.
Three years into their marriage, Edgar had collected so many jars the door to the spare room could barely open. He started putting the jars in other places. The kitchen cabinets. Jeanie’s underwear drawer. The toilet tank. He even filled the oven with jars of light. Jeanie, finally tired of tripping over jars, tried to convince Edgar to stop collecting. They had all the light they needed. I loved you even when you had only one jar, she tried to tell him. But Edgar knew no amount of light would ever be enough. So Jeanie split, taking all light she radiated with her. Heartbroken, Edgar busted every jar in the trailer that night until he was left with only darkness.
The following day started like any other. Ordinary and alone. Edgar ate eggs, over easy, and drank coffee, sitting on the tattered sofa. He listened to the dull whine of the refrigerator like some folks listened to Mozart or Stravinsky. Summer was in full swing. The afternoon sun turned the ground surrounding his trailer into burnt toast. Flowers wilted, the cricks dried up, and old dogs panted heavily in the shade.
