Aug 31, 2017

It was a house where they always made jam in the summer with the windows wide open, a warm breeze rustling the red checked curtains. All donning aprons, plump women and freckle-faced daughters did their work as they laughed, sleeves rolled up in a cuff. They tasted the berries before squashing them up and took it in turns to tell the same familiar stories, all the while reminding the girls that a little extra sugar never hurt a’body and anyway what was jam for if not to be sweet.