Preserving Memory

When he was a toddler, the peach tree
we planted in the backyard of our home
yielded a rich and fragrant abundance
of blushing, moistly-sweet fruit. What
to do with it all! Why, preserves, of course.
So, while his brother and sister were at
school and he at my side, the task of
peeling, skinning and simmering was
joined and the preserves placed in jars
for winter desserts invoking summer.

Years on, another house, with no peach
tree, in a colder climate. Still, we picked
wild strawberries, blueberries, raspberries
and blackberries in their luscious abundance
while on family forays into the woods and
hillsides of another place; appreciating
nature for her welcome mat, and generous
offerings. When children exhausted, sought
their beds, it was I who transformed the
gleaming berries into colourful preserves.

Now he is older than I was then, but he
remains intrigued by the tradition and the
production of glass jars bursting with the
gleam of bright red, blue and black preserves.
I no longer produce such treasures; why
bother for just two people, his father and me?
He comes home to visit from his far-off
home, bringing homey gifts of seasonal
jam from wild berries he picks, to please us.

And, last evening he enthused that he and I
could together make peach and ginger jam.
Quite the contest as to who between us
could blanch, peel, slice the baskets of
Niagara-region-produced fruit most
efficiently. Fun, we had, and laugh we did,
while each attended to the tasks at hand.

The house was filled with the sweet,
pungent fragrance of peach and ginger,
coalescing into their new relationship, as
the stew bubbled and thickened, to become
an utterly delectable addition to grace our
breakfast settings. The jars, filled to their
crystal brims with the orange nectar
presented in neat rows of practised tradition.