She tapped the glass. "He passed away yesterday. Now the jar is full of things that never happened. I’m selling it so someone might see how heavy an empty jar can be."
Clara smiled sadly. "This is a Jar of Laters. My husband filled it for forty years. Every time he wanted to tell me he loved me but was too busy, he’d whisper it into the jar to save for 'mais tarde.' Every time he wanted to see the ocean or learn the piano, he’d put a note in here for 'later.'" Mais tarde
Elias was a man of many notebooks. One for the house he’d build "mais tarde," one for the stories he’d write "mais tarde," and one for the trips he’d take when the time was right. To Elias, "later" wasn't a delay; it was a vast, shimmering horizon where all his best versions lived. She tapped the glass