Cinnamon and smoke. A waft of air from the sea, whale’s breath. A bit of grass, a bit of mud, then a tiny tuft of fox hair. Ah, this is the forgotten dream of a witch of sea and land.
I open the jar a bit more, cautious to see what could be clinging to the top. A sparkle of dew, rounded and embracing, dangling from a spike that’s finer than the finest hat pin. She’s got soft words with dangerous intent.
I fall in love with her a little more.
A flake of snow, ice crystal in a pattern that twists and turns on itself, a brushing of soot around the edges. This cold entered her dreams when she didn’t want it, the fire didn’t melt it, her furs didn’t protect from it. She felt this cold in her lungs, in the back of her throat, in the deepest part of her belly where no heat could get through.
I’m sorry, I say, petting the jar. That cold won’t go back in. I put the flake of cold sadness in my jewelry box, next to a peanut butter and jelly memory and a fluffy pillow scent.
I reach my hand in the jar, delicate and not wanting to disturb what I think I see in the bottom. A leaf of ivy with an eye. No, the eye under a leaf of ivy.
A nustle of feathers, downy puffs and the scent of smoke explained. Newborn dragon, phoenix, mystical creature of fire and flight that owes no one an explanation.
It’s waited for the jar to open, watched the light hit the glass shelf for years upon years. It takes a leisurely flap of the wings. The world is ready for it now.