You keep the jar. It sits on the counter, heavy with the smell of rot and honey. It is your father’s. He is gone now, but the jar remains. You open it. You close it. The lid clicks. It is a small sound. It is the loudest sound in the room.

Margaret comes in. She brings the coffee. She does not look at the jar. She looks at you. Her eyes are red. She has been crying. Or maybe it is the wind. The wind is bad today. It howls against the glass.

"Did you eat?" she asks.

"Yes," you say. You did not eat. You held the jar. The honey is thick. It is dark. It looks like old blood. It looks like time.

"You are a fool," she says. She sits down. She puts the mug on the table. The ceramic clinks against the wood. "He is dead. The food is spoiled."

"It is not spoiled," you say. "It is preserved."

"It is dead," she says. "It is rotting. You are rotting with it."

You look at your hands. They are shaking. The honey drips. It runs down the side of the jar. It pools on the counter. It is sticky. It is sweet. It smells like his breath. He smelled like this. When he was sick. When he was gone.

"I am hungry," you say.

"Then eat," she says. "Do not stare at the corpse."

She leaves. The door slams. The house shakes. The dust falls from the ceiling. It lands in your coffee. You do not wipe it away. You drink it. It tastes like dirt. It tastes like the earth.

You are in the small town. It is a place of gray stones and wet leaves. The people walk fast. They do not look at you. They know you are strange. They know you are waiting for something that will not come. You are the immigrant here. You are the one who does not fit. You carry the jar. You carry the weight.

The town is old. The buildings are old. The people are old. Time is a thief here. It takes things slowly. It takes your father. It takes your youth. It takes your hope. You hold the jar tight. You refuse to let it go.

You go to the shop. The owner, Thomas, is behind the counter. He is a large man. He has a face like a brick. He does not smile. He never smiles.

"Open?" you ask.

"No," he says. "Closed."

"Why?" you ask.

"Because it is closed," he says. "Go away."

You do not go away. You stand there. You hold the jar. The honey smells sweet. It cuts through the air. Thomas smells it. His nose wrinkles.

"Put that down," he says. "It is bad for the air."

"It is my father's," you say.

"Your father is dead," Thomas says. "The honey is old. It is poison."

"Is it?" you ask.

"Yes," he says. "It kills. It kills the sweet things. It turns them to stone."

You look at the jar. You look at the honey. It is clear. It is golden. It is beautiful. You do not believe him. You turn around. You walk out. The wind hits your face. It is cold. It is sharp. It cuts your skin.

You walk home. The streets are empty. The houses are dark. The lights are on. The windows are eyes. They watch you. They judge you. You are the monster. You are the one who keeps the dead. You are the one who feeds on the rot.

You sit at the table. You open the jar. You take a spoon. You dip it in. You lift it to your mouth. The honey is thick. It coats your tongue. It is warm. It is alive.

Margaret is in the kitchen. She is washing dishes. The water runs. It sounds like a river. It sounds like time. She hears you. She stops. She turns. She sees the spoon. She sees the honey.

"No," she says.

"I am eating," you say.

"That is not food," she says. "That is a lie."

"It tastes good," you say.

"It tastes like death," she says. "It tastes like your father's grave."

You swallow. It goes down. It burns. It is hot. It is sweet. It is strange. You feel it in your chest. It spreads. It touches your heart. It touches your blood.

"You are killing yourself," she says.

"I am living," you say.

"You are lying," she says. "You are a liar. You have always been a liar. You left us. You took the money. You took the jar. You took the name. You took the soul."

You stop. You look at her. Her face is hard. Her eyes are cold. She is angry. She has been angry for years. She has been angry since he died. She has been angry since you left.

"I am sorry," you say.

"You are not," she says. "You never are. You are just a child. A big child. A broken child."

The spoon falls. It hits the floor. It rolls under the table. You do not pick it up. You look at the jar. The honey is still there. It is still sweet. It is still alive.

"Give it to me," she says.

"No," you say.

"Give it to me," she says. "Or I will throw it. I will throw it out the window. I will let the birds eat it. I will let the worms eat it. I will let it rot."

You shake your head. You hold the jar. You squeeze it. The glass creaks. It is thin. It is weak. It is like your bones.

"You are weak," she says. "You are so weak. You cannot hold on. You cannot hold anything. Not me. Not him. Not yourself."

You look at the jar. You look at the honey. You see your face in it. You see your father’s face. You see the years. You see the time. It is all there. In the honey. In the rot. In the sweet.

You open the window. The wind rushes in. It is loud. It is wild. It is free. You hold the jar out. You hold it over the sill. The honey drips. It falls. It hits the stone. It is gone.

You watch it go. You watch it fall. You watch it disappear. It is gone. The jar is empty. The lid is loose. The smell is gone.

You feel light. You feel empty. You feel nothing.

Margaret walks to the window. She looks down. She looks at you. She does not speak. She does not need to. She sees it. She knows.

You close the window. The wind is outside. It is free. You are inside. You are still.

You sit down. You pick up the spoon. It is clean. It is dry. You put it in the sink. The water runs. It washes away the taste. It washes away the sweet. It washes away the rot.

You look at your hands. They are still. They are clean. They are yours.

Margaret comes to the table. She sits down. She does not look at you. She looks at the empty space where the jar was.

"He is gone," she says.

"Yes," you say.

"Good," she says.

"Yes," you say.

The house is quiet. The wind is quiet. The time is gone. You are here. You are now. You are alone. But you are not empty. You are full. You are full of air. You are full of silence. You are full of life.

You take a breath. It is deep. It is clean. It is sweet. Not like honey. Like rain. Like new leaves. Like the start of something.

You look at Margaret. She looks at you. Her eyes are soft. Her face is calm. The anger is gone. The weight is gone.

"Thank you," she says.

"For what?" you ask.

"For letting it go," she says.

You nod. You do not speak. You do not need to. You know. You have always known. You just held on too tight. You held on until it broke. You held on until it was gone.

Now it is gone. And you are here.

The sun sets. The light fades. The shadows grow. They are long. They are dark. They are peaceful. You sit in the dark. You sit in the quiet. You sit in the peace.

The jar is empty. The honey is gone. The father is gone. The past is gone.

You are free.

You are free.

You are free.

The wind stops. The house sleeps. You sleep. You dream of nothing. You dream of air. You dream of space. You dream of light.

You wake up. The sun is up. The light is bright. The air is fresh. You open the window. You breathe in. You breathe out. You are alive. You are here. You are now.

Margaret is in the kitchen. She is making coffee. The smell is good. It is real. It is new.

You walk to her. You stand by the door. You do not speak. She looks up. She smiles. It is a small smile. It is a real smile.

"Good morning," she says.

"Good morning," you say.

You sit down. You drink the coffee. It is hot. It is bitter. It is sweet. It is life.

You are here. You are now. You are free.