I worry that if I uncork the bottle, The ink inside will already be dry.

And I sense that if I unstop the dam, The flood will but slowly trickle by.

I fear that when I unlock the door, Not even monsters will come through.

But mostly I dread that if I unlatch the gate, I’ll have to see if this talent’s true.

I started putting nickels in a mason jar. I’d find them on the street or in couch cushions. The jar sat in my closet, always hungry. As the jar grew, so did my anticipation. Once nearly full, I showed my parents, beaming. Befuddled by the jar’s purpose, my dad turned it to read the label. Painted on the side in red letters: “For Braces.” I couldn’t understand why that made my dad cry.