He loved the bitter tastes—
thrilled at what happened to the mouth
without sugar. So tonight,
staring at the fresh cranberries,
I feel the now familiar twist
of deep love laced with sour.
How many pots of cranberry sauce
did we make out of season,
boiling down the hard red fruits
with as little sugar as we could manage?
I remember the way he poured cranberries
into the pot, not with grace,
but with enthusiasm. The way he waited
for the berries to meld before adding
sugar, clove and orange peel.
The way he thrilled in the sharp red tang—
his pucker trailed by a grin.
The cranberries spark in me a brighter
love for that boy. Even as I wince.