I keep my past in a mason jar,
pieces of sea glass, worn and smooth,
each one a memory, clear or marred,
colored by time, the ultimate truth.
Tucked in the dark, beneath my bed,
they whisper stories of who I was,
of paths I've tread and tears I've shed,
each shard a verse in my life's cause.
Like sea glass, I'm shaped by tides and sands,
my edges softened by life's embrace,
each memory held in these aging hands,
a patchwork of grace, and sometimes, disgrace.