PAUL G. TREMBLAY
I stopped walking. “Well . . . um . . . can I look in it, again, Grandma?” That same kinda sad smile on Grandma’s wide face. “Yes, but not today. The jar, the fears it holds, takes a lot out of you, and you’re exhausted.” “I saw bugs the first time.” “I know, I was watching.” Grandma laughed when she saw my jaw drop. “Sam, my sweet, you need to work on your sneaking skills!” Grandma led me up to her apartment, laughing all the way. I fell asleep on her lap, thinking about the jar and what I would see the next time. About once every month, Grandma invited me down cellar with her and gave me another peek at the jar. In a year I saw more bugs, a thing made out of shadow, the Wicked Witch of the West, the roller coaster collapsing with me riding on it, my best friend Jenny turned into a big-toothed demon along with my little brothers, and a bunch of other monsters right out of my nightmares. And Grandma watched, taught me how to keep from being afraid, and when to drop the jar. The last time Grandma watched me look into the jar, I . . . . . . was standing, alone, in a graveyard. A forever-sea of green, with granite markers spreading as far as I could see. A cold wind passed, chilling my hands and icing the tears on my face. I fell to my knees next to a gravestone. It read: Samantha Greene 1870-1945 Beloved Mother and Grandmother I always knew that I was named after my Grandma, and that brought home the power of the image before me more than the endless graveyard. I let out a moan, and then there was a tidal wave of loneliness and loss and it was too much. A whisper, “Don’t forget to drop the jar, sweetie . . . . . . it’s okay, Sam. We’re back.” Grandma let me cry against her shoulder for a time. She tried to joke. “Jeez, I’m glad to know that I will be missed.” “Grandma,” I wailed. “I know, not funny. But when I do die, Sam, I want you to keep this jar, and do as you see fit.” 224