The Glass Jar

The glass jar my mom throws pennies in plays the wedding waltz when you open it. You just have to wind a key in the lid. When I was younger, when my mom rolled her pennies, it was my job to wind up the jar. When I heard the wedding waltz I knew my presence was needed. It made me feel needed. It was something I could do usually without help. It was important. Small things keep you going.

Over time the jar stopped working. The music got so slow it was chilling. I’d feel suspense. I’d imagine skeletons dancing. My parents seemed happier when they were younger.

Once when I wound the jar it went clank and died. “Look what you’ve done,” Mom said. She didn’t need me after that. She rolls the pennies herself now, in silence.

But sometimes when she opens the jar it still makes one ding like a last gasp of romance. I can hear it even from my room. It reminds me of how things were. I used to — I’d get so sad. I’d close my eyes for a long time. But not anymore.

I stopped winding my heart up a long time ago.