This afternoon, Beatrice came up and asked me if she could paint on a glass jam jar that I’d saved on a lower shelf in our kitchen. It wasn’t a particularly nice jar, or it would have been if it hadn’t been covered with most of the label despite already having taken a trip through the dishwasher. So I found her another jar, reminded her that glass jars will break and hurt one’s feet if they are dropped, and continued on peeling potatoes. She came back a few minutes later and asked for another jar, so I gave her one.

One of those jars now has a plastic cockroach at the bottom, a turquoise sequined sash on top of that and a red and white gingham Bonne Maman lid. The other has three wooden clown head puzzle pieces beneath a multitude of broken wax crayons. Most have had their labels peeled off and are a colourful rainbowy jumble beneath a plain black lid.

I want to take a picture of these jars, frame it and hang it on the wall, or display them on my dining room table as a centrepiece. Somehow, this feels like art.

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