On the day I learned that he died,
I made blackberry jam. The kitchen
was steamy and hot from the water bath,
and the bubbling saucepan of fruit took nearly
an hour to gel. I stood and stirred
and stirred and stood. The sweet scent
touched everything. It was gray
outside and smelled of rain, while in
the pot deepened a most beautiful darkness,
the color of sugar that comes with time.
It was an accident, of course, the kind
that makes every one of us think
we are lucky to be alive, lucky to stand
wherever we are standing, whether
it’s in line for a bus or beside the road
or in front of a chalkboard or
in the middle of the kitchen stirring
blackberry jam. How could I not fall in love
with the heat, with the color of blackberries,
how could I not fall in love with the cat
and the chatter of the girl playing dolls
and the racket of the boys throwing pillows
and even the ache in my feet. What a blessing
to be alive, to feel this awful tug
in my gut, this surge of what if,
this swell of what was, this terrible gift
of standing for hours to preserve what is sweet
as if I believe there will be a day months from now
when we will eat the sweetness and
know ourselves lucky to be alive.
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