Preserved Peaches

The following spring, Margaret turned the soil in the vegetable garden for the first time since Harold's death. She planted beans where he always had, though she knew she had far more room than one woman required. When summer ripened into autumn, the peach tree behind the house bore only a modest harvest, but it was enough.

One cool September afternoon she stood over the stove, peeling fruit exactly as her mother had taught her years before. Glass jars lined the counter, waiting patiently to be filled. As the peaches simmered with sugar and spice, their sweet fragrance drifted through the kitchen, chasing away a silence that had once seemed permanent.

Harold had always stolen a slice before they reached the jars.

She smiled at the memory.

When the final lid was tightened with its familiar metallic pop, Margaret arranged the jars upon the pantry shelf. Their amber fruit glowed softly in the afternoon light, each one holding a season that would otherwise have been lost.

She stood there for a long moment.

Grief, she realized, was much the same.

It did not ask her to forget.

It asked her to preserve what was sweetest, to carry it carefully through the long winters of her life, and to open it only when she needed reminding that love, once given, was never truly gone.

Margaret lifted one warm jar from the shelf and smiled to herself.

Some things could not be kept forever.

Some things, however, could be preserved.