Some look at me and think “she must have heap upon heap of empty plastic bottles strewed all over the floor of a place she tries to call home”
And some may look half heartedly thinking that they already know, as if they have passed this way before and I have told them my life’s story over a reluctat cup of tea
But few know that I only have but one jar.
Yes, just one.
It may be half the size of most, I do not know
But it is made of the purest gold.
A stout jar with a narrow brim, adorned with treasures I cannot even begin to describe
And though I may use up its content every single day,
sometimes to the point of inserting my finger and running it against the inner walls to get the last drop,
it is full and over flowing every single morning
Though I may speculate the measure, I dare not ask why
Grace
Noma the writer 