A JAR OF JAM

Very moving...inspires memories of childhood

I learnt as a young woman how to reliably open stuck jam lids, even to change car tires. Who knows if a man's strong hands are going to be around to struggle with tight cellophane wrappings?

A JAR OF JAM The old woman tries to open a jar of jam. She holds the jar firmly. Open, she says, but it says no. The kitchen window opens without incident when asked, but not this jar. She wipes her forehead with an arm. It’s August. The sun takes off its hat, its face a giant yellow dahlia. Insects make a racket in the trees, scent of grass and apples from the neighbor’s yard. The cricket under the porch sounds like the motor of their ancient refrigerator. The fly in the room doesn’t help. Nature has a sense of humor. She reaches for the dish towel, but still the jar won’t open. The kitchen is close. No hint of breeze today. The smell of linoleum damp with age makes her think of rain. The screen door swollen shut opens suddenly with a rattle. The woman’s husband having helped a friend down the road change a tire comes in. I’m back, he says. She thinks of asking him for a hand but decides a spoon will do. She taps the lid of the jar as if tapping the side of a soft boiled egg. There, she says, victoriously. At lunch her husband takes a chair at the table for a bowl of cucumber soup. His great hands before him, little help as he struggles to open a package of saltines.