Jinxed Jar

The jar had been standing on the table for almost a decade. For years no one had dared move or dust the jar for fear of wrath from him or worse, her. She would blast anyone as much as dared to stare at the jar a bit too long. ‘Want some of it?’, she would bark, daring the stupid starer to reply in the affirmative. But all of them slouched back to whatever they were doing in that cursed home. That year, I came home. And for reasons unknown yet, she loved me. I was her cherub. The pizza in the oven. And the whole household got jealous of that fact. 

‘You can stop digging Ma’, I said annoyed at her wheezing and feebly flinging at the hole she had been at for almost an hour. ‘But you have to go a lot deeper if it’s for you. We are planning on getting you standing in the end. You would love the vibes, they say', I continued, goading her to look up and spite me. The old one looked up, a tired smile fluttering under her nose. ‘I wouldn’t care if you lowered me on my head’, grandma croaked hoarsely. Her postnasal throat infection making it impossible to understand her.