She collects green Skittles
In glass jars on the kitchen shelf.
It starts with a habit,
Leaving open rainbow bags
On the counter by the sink,
As always, for him.
She barely even registers the mess of ripped packets,
Spilling emerald reminders and cluttering spotless tile,
Until her sister suggests
With gentle sympathy, always gentle,
That she tidy up.
But she can’t bear to throw them away,
To sweep them into the gaping mouth of the trashcan
Like they never existed,
Like he never existed,
So she puts them in jars, jars from his mother,
Watching grass and trees and Christmas wreaths,
Summer evening salads and apple cider bottles,
Silky spotted ties and worn polo shirts,
Pile up behind the clear barrier,
Filling the empty spaces in her life with memories of
Green… green… green…
