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The lichen-laced arbor stands silent

as I untwist its vine

a weather-beaten muscle of wood

barren these last two years

after flourishing for sixty…when

 

daring each other, my sister and I

bit into the tart nubs of early grapes,

then as clusters ripened, we popped their purpleness

into our mouths, chewed the thick sweet skins,

cringed at the sour centers, spat the bumpy seeds.

 

When summer waned and nights cooled,

we picked until bushel baskets overflowed.

Separated from stems, crushed, heated,

poured into the large stained cheesecloth bag

to hang overnight above the stainless steel kettle,

the Concord grapes dripped

their midnight-purple juice.

 

Next morning, adding sugar and pectin,

Mom boiled the nectar, skimmed

the lavender-colored foam, poured

the fragrant liquid into hot half-pint jars,

layered each with melted paraffin to

seal them tight.

 

The vine crumbles in my hands.

 

Only a few wax-topped jars of jelly

remain in the cool dark of Mom’s cellar.

We break the seal, eat it carefully now,

its sweetness almost too much to bear.

 

Published: The Healing Muse: A Journal of Literary and Visual Arts.

Vol. 14, No. 1. Fall 2014.