Lightning in a Mason Jar

by Catherine Mann

As if a woman’s entire worth, her sum total sense of self, were tied into her ring finger and uterus. A Mrs. or a mom.

Today? My name is Winnie Ballard. I’m from Bent Oak, South Carolina, where I work in the paper mill.

Some people had to come to the realization that their parents were imperfect humans who were doing life for the first time too.

“You’re worth the wait,” he said. “You’re my lightning in a bottle, that once-in-a-lifetime event. Difficult. Challenging. And exciting beyond belief.” “We’re in the South,” I reminded him. “So that should be lightning in a Mason jar.”

And none of the people she’d pulled into her orbit had actually been related to her—a testament to the way people could build strong relationships with the friends they chose.

“You’re just hurting. And you’re sealing that pain up inside like okra in one of your Mason jars. Except that isn’t gonna work. You gotta pour it out, sit in it for as long as you need, then step back into your life.”