The Jar

End of every year,
I sit on the beach,
Get hold of a
Fistful of sand.

I press as hard as I till
Much of it slips away
From the gaps between
My fingers.

Whatever remains in
In the palms.
I put it aside in a jar.

I do this on repeat,
Till the jar is full of
The sand grains that
Chose to stick around.

Years have rolled down,
Decades have passed.
The grip has weakened
Yet what I retain keeps
Coming down.

Keeping up with old friends
Is a laborious task.
Now it takes more time
To fill the jar.