Jam
It’s
true, a friend rescued my very old Grandma’s plums, which Grandma harvested
from her garden trees. How did my friend get them? I suggested she could stop
by Grandma’s house and take a few, but, impulsively, my friend seized them all.
The whole spread of plums neatly waiting in a crate on Grandma’s kitchen table.
Grandma, away at a church event that Sunday, called me later for an
explanation. She said the table was empty. The afternoon sun shined bright in
my kitchen window. I phoned my friend suggesting she could return the plums—maybe,
in the form of jam. I waited, breathless. Grandma wanted to share her harvest with
her own friends. Grandma’s lecturing hung in my mind—but also, something else.
Something rebellious. Resilient. I was 34—but suddenly I felt 19.
“Alas, I
ate all the plums,” my friend replied. With this confirmation, elation coursed
through my veins. I knew my friend—she could be that way. Energized, she’d renovate
a forgotten corner of her house, book a cool local trip, or drink a Herculean-sized
cup of coffee, whereas I could only handle a small cup. She said then, on the
phone, that she felt guilty, I did indeed tell her “some of the fruit.” She
really enjoyed the plums, she said. “Their sweet, tangy juice,” she said. I
sensed the abundance of her enjoyment. I began to sweat. Her words made me
shake. My mouth stubbornly watering, I knew I’d have to make another call.
I told
Grandmother they were very good. Hoping. In my mind, envisioning the glorious plum
trees of next year.
