Five years after my Granny died we ate her last jar of gooseberry jam. It was odd because none of us actually like gooseberry jam, but we couldn’t throw out the full jar. I always thought it was odd how when someone is alive, you can insult them and throw out their stuff without a second thought but the second they are dead; it becomes disrespectful. How does that even work? Is it not more disrespectful you bitching about the person behind their back?
Anyway this is about the jam jars, every year we would receive a big box of about 20 jars of jam. I always liked the strawberry ones; they were the first to go. We would have a spoonful with our rice pudding on a Sunday evening. I remember opening up a jar and seeing all the mould, I would get a spoon and spoon out all the green bits; I would put the jam on my brother’s or father’s bit of toast first just to be sure all the mould was gone before I put it on mine.
I don’t like jam anymore, don’t think I ever liked it, but it had to be eaten. I do miss opening up the cupboard and hunting through all the jam jars; it was like a treasue chest, you never knew what you would find once you started digging. You never knew what flavour it was going to be until you tasted a spoonful, by then it was too late to pick another jar; once opened you had to finish the damn jar.
Note: This is first draft, there will be no other draft, I am writing exactly what I thought about when I thought of ‘jars’. Enjoy.
Prompts are from Sarah Selecky, http://www.sarahselecky.com/