In Glass Jars

The man at the front of the bus—grizzled, dressed in black sweater and shirt, grey slacks—held a white Styrofoam pellet container with red-lettered tape encircling it.

I expected to read that it contained human blood, as I’ve regularly seen containers of that transported on Acadian buses. Along with live chicks, bedding plants and trees, the canisters of feature-length movies.

When the man lifted the handled container, it swung around from CAUTION / FRAGILE warnings to CONTAINS HUMAN EYES—IN GLASS JARS.

That’s a tough one. HUMAN as in people . . . family . . . someone's relative or relatives . . . a mother or sister, son, brother . . . Someone’s “dear departed . . .”

The eyes of the dead en route to possibly giving welcome sight to someone else. What a gift! What incredible small gifts those human eyes will make.

Someday, it might be my eyes—burnt from so many years of close detail work—inside such a container of glass jars.

I’ve signed-off on the organ donor component of my driver’s licence and that information must be in the barcode or magnetic strip on the card’s back. When I renew my licence, I put a checkmark and sign as requested. I’m willing to share what little I have.

shirt: Dk blue prairie knit
loc: Acadian Lines bus 10602
temp: ? (warmer than it was)
sound: wheels on the road, passenger chatter