The Jars

By Soledad Morillo Belloso

Grief is a pain that does not disappear, it only changes its form. Sometimes it is a gale that sweeps everything in its path. At other times it is a whisper, an echo that creeps into everyday life. But sooner or later, grief finds what it is looking for: its container. It becomes an invisible bottle that we carry with us, that weighs but does not break, that fills with emptiness, tears and silences.

It is not about enclosing the pain to forget it, but to give it a space where it can exist. In that jar live the dates that hurt, the names that no longer answer, the unanswered questions. It does not open all at once, because it would hurt too much. It opens little by little, when the heart can hold it, when the memory needs to breathe it.

Everyone carries his own bottle. Some keep it deep inside, others show it without fear. None is the same, because grief is personal, intimate, non-transferable. But in each jar there is more than loss: there is love, there is history, there is a bond that is never completely broken.

Mourning is not forgetting. It is the way love learns to live with absence.

You cannot destroy what is in the jar. Because the pain does not diminish. What is done is to move the pain to a bigger jar. Pain does not disappear, it does not fade away or dissolve with time. What changes is its space, its container. At first, the jar is small, hermetically sealed, impossible to ignore. Over time, without the pain diminishing, it moves to a larger jar, where there is room for other things, for other feelings, such as nostalgia.

This larger bottle does not erase what is inside. It welcomes it without displacing it, allows it to exist without absorbing everything. And from time to time, when it is uncovered, the pain returns with the same intensity, reminding us that it has never left. But in that immensity that has been built around it, there are also other colors, other memories, other ways of sustaining what hurts without the only thing that exists being the loss.

It is not about forgetting. It is about learning to live with the jar and in the jar, without fear that it will fill up. Because it will continue to fill.

In the second jar there is room for memories and shared experiences. In that second jar, the pain is still present, but there is also space for the memories, for the shared moments that are alive in the memory. It is not only a container of absence, but of everything that built the bond: the conversations, the laughter, the teachings, the struggles as a duo, the moments that continue to resonate even when the physical presence is no longer there.

That jar does not encapsulate what was lost, but all that remains. Over time, it fills with new ways of remembering, of private and silent tributes, of everyday gestures that keep alive what was. It is not an escape from mourning, but a refuge where love and memory can exist without being consumed by sadness.

There is no way to close that jar, because we never stop remembering. But it is also a testimony that what was lived still has a place in the history of those who move on. Without forgetting. Without erasing. Only finding space for love to coexist with absence.

And then it is necessary to take everything that was in the second jar and move it to a third jar. Yes, because mourning is not static. It is a process that continues to transform itself, that adapts to the new stages of life. The third jar does not eliminate what came before, it only gives it a new home, a new space where pain, memories and shared experiences can continue to exist without suffocation.

Each bottle is a transition, an adjustment to what it means to live with absence. In the first, the pain is absolute, it occupies everything. In the second, memories begin to find their place. And in the third, grief is no longer perceived only as loss, but as part of a history to be appreciated, honored and valued.

This third jar is broader, more open. It does not mean forgetting or leaving behind, but integrating. It is the space where love is kept alive, where memory coexists with present life, where absence is still present. Because grief never disappears, it only learns to occupy the space it needs.

In the free space of the third jar there is no room for frivolity. The space is for what really matters. In that third jar, space is not filled with empty words or trivial distractions. It is the place where only the memories that matter, the teachings that endure, the love that remains intact. What really matters finds its home there, without being displaced by the superficial.

It is a space built with intention, where grief is not minimized or ignored, but integrated with meaning. Therein reside the lessons left by the loss, the traces that the loved one imprinted in one's life. There is no room for denial, or for  unwarranted rush to "get over it." There is only truth, depth, and the certainty that love, even in absence, continues to occupy its space.

That third bottle is the one that allows us to move forward without forgetting, without losing what is essential. Because what really matters does not disappear. It transforms, it accommodates, but it always remains.

In that third bottle, love breathes freely, without having to give explanations. Yes. In that third bottle, love is no longer tied to pain or to the obligation to justify its existence. It does not need explanations because it simply is, because it survives absence, because it finds ways to manifest itself without asking permission.

It is a love that does not hide, that does not fear memory, that is not reduced to sadness. It breathes in every memory, in every gesture that honors what has been lived, in every instant where its presence is felt without the need for words. It is not a love that is conditioned or locked in mourning, it is a love that has found its space to exist fully, freely and without limits.

It is there where love ceases to be only loss and becomes a legacy. Where absence no longer defines it, but the depth with which it remains present. Without explanations. Without restrictions. Just being.

 In that third bottle is my husband's voice telling me "I love you". And that voice is never lost. In that third bottle, those words live on strongly, without fading in the distance of time. They are not just a memory, but a presence that accompanies, that whispers in moments of silence, that continues to sustain love without the need for proof or explanation.

Those words, those two simple but immense words, are the heartbeat that remains. There is no absence that can erase what was said from the heart, because the love that drove them is still there, breathing in every thought, in every shared memory, in every instant where its presence is felt without the need to see it.

That "I love you" has no expiration date. It is part of myself, of my story, of that third jar that holds what really matters. And what is important never disappears. It is what nothing and no one can take away from me.

I would have given my life for my husband, and he would have given it for me. In September 2000 he came to my house and said, "I am madly in love with you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you." And he gave me my first kiss.

That moment is a treasure that lives in me, in every thought, in every memory that continues to light my path. Those words, that first kiss, were the beginning of a story marked by deep love, by absolute surrender, by the certainty that we had found a home in each other. 

On December 14, 2022, his last words were "I love you". And he  stopped suffering.

A love like ours does not fade away, it is not lost in time. It continues to breathe in the small details, in the memory that needs no proof to sustain itself, in the echo of those words that never cease to resonate, in every instant that their love feels as alive as that day in September.  It was never about "him" or "me". It was always "we”, “us”.  We were extremely lucky. To find yourself in a love where the "we" always prevails over the "I" is a gift that few get to know. That absolute connection, that walk together, is what defines the truly extraordinary in a relationship. It is not just love, it is companionship, it is unreserved devotion, it is the certainty of having found in each other a home, a shared purpose.

Fortune was on our side, certainly, but ours was also the result of a genuine dedication, of a story of passion and truth, that did not give up when life was often demanding and tested us. That "we" continues to exist, continues to resonate, continues to be the axis where love never ceases to dwell.

Surely I will have to look for a fourth bottle.  Yes, because grief never stays still. It always finds new spaces, new ways of existing within the life that continues. That fourth jar does not replace the previous ones, but welcomes them, reorganizes them, lets them breathe in a different way.

I'll probably have to look for a fourth jar.  Yes, because grief never stands still. It always finds new spaces, new ways of existing within the life that continues. That fourth jar does not replace the previous ones, but welcomes them, reorganizes them, lets them breathe in a different way. 

Perhaps in this new bottle pain has a more defined, clearer place, without consuming everything else. Perhaps in it love continues to expand, without fear, without restrictions, holding each memory with strength and tenderness. And perhaps in that space, the absence does not disappear, but is transformed into company, into a different presence, into something that continues to dwell with me in another way. 

There is no hurry to find it, because mourning never speeds up. But when the time comes, when the heart feels it is necessary, the fourth jar will be there, ready to receive all that continues to matter.

About the Author

©*Soledad Morillo Belloso is a journalist, a writer… and a widow.