About the Longevity of Labelling Bell Jars by Mandira Pattnaik

I do understand the way my loving husband labels the bell jars, even though I can see through the glass what they are filled-with—salt, sugar, biscuits, and flour. It is to show he cares, and he’s worried I’ll confuse them, mix salt in his tea or plate some dog biscuits for the guests and serve cookies to the dog, but I can always tell that he enjoys doing it, bent on the kitchen table, the squeaky-clean jars lined up before him, thin strips of paper ready to be made into labels, and his hand scribbling onto them one at a time. I am glad that we age together, in grief and hope, in grace and the togetherness of our souls, and in the ripeness of our wrinkled faces. The labels feel personal and lasting, like his love, like a reminder of presence in either of our future absence, never mind how the labels get washed away when I clean the jars and our children are careless with their handling so the glue wears off, and I can discover a salt label in the bathtub and a tea label under the sink, but it is all good when the stranger who comes and stays all day in our daughter’s room, but I can’t recall his name, walks to me before he leaves, our delightful daughter following him close behind, and says, You keep a beautiful house, Ma’am, as though it is a splendid parting gift just small enough to fit into a forgetful mind, but not too small as not to see why it is said at all.

Mandira Pattnaik is an Indian writer, editor and columnist. Her work appears in The Rumpus, Quarterly West and The Cincinnati Review. More at mandirapattnaik.com