The Orchard, by Katherine May

I am surrounded by orchards everywhere I look.  There’s the old apple orchard on top of the knob field and then a small grouping of cherry trees.  There are peaches and plum trees and a small arbor for grapes and finally pears and quince.

Old gnarly stumps lean into the arbor and seem not to be alive but every September it’s a race to see if I can harvest the grapes before the squirrels and birds take their fill. When Pearl lived here, she and her granddaughters picked grapes for jam and put up six batches that would last them through the winter.

I found some of the jars in the basement, thick heads of wax at the top and the most beautiful quilted pattern etched into the glass. I didn’t dare to eat the jam inside, but I wanted to taste it and kept it on the counter for a few weeks.

I could make my own jam, I suppose, but then I’d have to figure out a way to keep the squirrels and birds from eating all the grapes and that seems like too much work. Besides, I like that there’s something for them to eat and I like watching them from my kitchen window. They remind me of another time that I can’t quite put my finger on but it comforts me.

I think of Pearl often here in this big old house living alone for many years. Her photo is faded from the sun streaming through the window, but her presence is still so strong. She lived here for 80-plus years so how could I not be aware of her. I am the queen of the kitchen now, but here is Pearl’s jam — oh, that’s a musical group, I think — but no, I mean to say Pearl is gone but her presence is not and the jam is a reminder of a gift she left behind.

We all will leave gifts behind to remind others that we were here for just a short time.