The candy
jar was stuffed so full that it could no longer clatter, and that is the most
solid point of which any candy jar can reach, it is perfection, the ultimate it
can attain. It stood on an upper shelf as you descended into the cellar, high
and lofty looking down upon everyone who walked down those stairs. It knew very
well what it had within its framed glass, and if I may use the term, stomach,
would have brought all the joy and pleasure in the world to a little eight year
old boy.
That little boy of eight looked at it
daily, stretching his legs and arms, measuring the distance from the top stair
to the jar, hoping to grow taller, or tall enough to reach it, hoping it would
not take another year or two, and if his neck grew along with his arms and legs
all the better.
Then all of a sudden, one Sunday
afternoon, there was an uncommon racket, a clash and bang in the house, and the
wooden frame, the board, and the candy jar that it rested on, not strong enough
to hold the little boy who was now dangling from it, cracked and broke into two
pieces. He did not do it to protest against where it stood, where his mother
proposed it should be, it was a game between the jar and him, and I suppose all
kids cannot be little noblemen, he leaped a little too far this time, in his
stretch, and down he fell with the jar and all, it broke, rolled down a few
steps right onto his lap, on the stairway. As the saying goes, “We all cannot
be little noblemen.”
Written 8-12-2012 (Lima, Peru) #950
