Jam Jars Poem by Doireann Ní Ghríofa

They stand on the windowsill now, long empty
Three tall jam jars, their labels yellowed, faded by sunlight
the careful curlicues of a stranger's hand no longer legible.
The neighbours still talk of their arrival from America
when I was a child. They describe the jars clean, clear, then
brimming with jams and jellies. They tell of that strange sweetness,
the texture on the tongue. They recall the strange names of fruits
that grew under a faraway foreign sun, were stewed in sugar there,
preserved and packed and travelled across oceans to be tasted here.
Iwatch them shake their heads in wonderment.
Alone, I hold a jar to the light and imagine the glow
of those faraway fruits and berries, pushing their childish
cheeks to the glass, peering out at this new world.
I press my lips to the glass, breathe, and push my fingertips
to that fogged frost to write the letters that spell my name.
Sometimes, I whisper my secrets into their open mouths,
and screw the steel lids on tight to trap my breath inside.
They preserve my imagined memories in their emptiness.