Pickles

Last summer's pickles were a little too salty, they were

Delicious.

We had eaten or given away all the other jars

And one had slipped, forgotten, sideways in the jar box.

I found it last week on the pantry shelf when I was rummaging for jars and put it in the fridge; I opened it tonight.

The pickles were puckeringly briney and cold.

I ate them straight from the jar and then drank the vinegar until the peppercorns knocked on my lips.

And I bless the me of last summer who tilted a jar sideways so that it got lost

Waiting

To join me, this summer.

And it's not the first time: 

I fell in love with someone selfish when I was 18, and, carrying my broken heart with both hands, stumbled headlong into Patrick, the embodiment of kindness.

I almost lost my mother twice, and she came back from that soft brink to us, willingly.

I watched our house fall apart and our money disappear and now I wake up daily in the land where dreams come true.

I've been led, unaware, along dusty paths like empty shelves

And I am not left empty.

With belly full and tongue still smarting sour, I pray this gift for you

May you, too, find yourself held in the hands of One who turns

Mistakes into surprises and

Time into tang and

An empty shelf into

Pickles.