I love everything about this jelly.
My best friend gave it to me as a gift last fall.
She made it herself. Can you imagine
how many tiny grapes she had to gather?
I put it away to save for a snowy day
on the long stretch between the holidays
and spring. And today was that day.
I brought it from my pantry, liking even
the feel of it in my hand. In the kitchen,
I held the quilted glass jar up to the window
so the light would shine through its burgundy hues.
Then I brought it up to my eyes so that it eclipsed
everything else, so that all I could see was its color.
I laughed and carried it to the counter.
On its lid in Holly’s magic marker script
it says “Wild Grape 9-24.” I remember
September. I nibbled wild grapes at the wetlands.
Holly said it didn’t set up right;
it was more syrup than jelly. But I didn’t care.
I removed the ring from the top of jar,
my mouth tingling in anticipation.
Then I carefully pried off the lid.
With the tip of a teaspoon
I dipped into the thick red pool
as if I were performing a sacrament.
Then, my eyes shut, paying full attention,
I tasted it.
I nearly swooned at the tangy sweet intensity of it,
tasting like the culmination of autumn’s best productions.
It will, I know, disappear before many days pass.
But I will keep the jar on my window sill
and remember the taste of wild grapes
and think of September and Holly when I see it.