A scribbled note. Written after finding
a chutney recipe late last night. Something
new to make with a few remaining pears.
The endless pears, tucked in their newspaper
downstairs, that ripen with such certainty.
The ones my son picked before the rain.

Like my mother’s, written on the back
of an envelope, mine is a reused list
of crossed off items restored to need.
Frozen cranberries, top shelf at Fairways,
ginger root, anise seed circled so I don’t forget,
golden raisins, always a treat. Buttermilk.

I’m off to the shop before the heat of the day.
Doesn’t this list positively scream September?
My son reminds me how he loves to gobble
canned pears by the pint full come winter.
We chat on the phone for an hour while I chop.
By the time we hang up the canner is full.

He shares stories of gentlemen who offer him
tomatoes when he cuts their lawns. What is it
about old men and tomatoes he ponders.
Trophy, I say, something to be proud of still.
He is making a list of people to whom
he wants to give my jam. Purpose, I say.


© by Judith Heron.
Used with the author’s permission.

Photo credit: Judith Heron