There were 3 jars on the mantel 

that gleamed down at me like heavenly orbs

Ashes, Water, and Honey.

Ashes - it was blue, with red dots round the rim - 

and a tiny small photo of Henry pinned on front.

Water, from our baptisms, not to spill but to remember.

Honey, the magic food of ancient Egypt, the love-labour of flowers,

its jar was hazel-gray and curved like a 

teapot.

They all stared down at me, trinity, a vow, three sisters

and I wanted to be a fourth jar.

I painted myself, the Ophelia jar, silky white and tied it with a red string.

When he came with wide-eyed lunacy - 

I sliced a sliver of my palm. I let the

blood run into the fourth jar. It was not catharsis but it was something.

So I poured more and more of myself in.

Now there are 4 jars on the mantel, 

smiling down at me like heavenly, dizzy, rebellious orbs.

Ashes, Water, Honey, and Blood.

The Ophelia jar is almost full.

But honey is still the heaviest.