Logan 8/97 on the lid
In my mother’s distinctive hand.
I hesitate –
It’s the last one.
On my pantry shelf for fifteen years
Because every time I picked it up, I put it back:
It’s the very last one.
My mother –
Today, Logan 8/97 is ripe for picking.
With a little pop,
The lid comes off,
Revealing brownberry jam:
The essence of a summer so long past.
Here’s to you, Momma:
Here’s to the countless berries
Here’s to berry-stained fingers
And wooden spoons
And paraffin in a little pan.
Here’s to sweet, sweet memories airtight in half-pint jars.
Here’s to Logan 8/97 –
The very last one.