Cherry Preserves

“Bill, don’t eat that. It’s for your mother. She does a lot around here and she deserves a little something, just for herself.”

I put the jar of cherry preserves back into the refrigerator. In my late teens, I could recognize how right my stepdad was. Mom had more than earned a little treat for herself.

When I was very young, the budget could handle an occasional luxury like cherry preserves, but each dollar had a destination. When the price of a jar could also buy two or more gallons of gas, this indulgence was frequently ignored.

The seasons turned into years and, one by one, my siblings left to start their own homes, freeing up some of the budget for my parents to pamper themselves. Dad bought a fishing boat, and the whole family went camping at the lake. Mom satisfied herself with something much more simple, and it became common to see her enjoy a cup of coffee with a slice of toast, covered with cherry preserves.

After my own marriage, I dropped by Mom’s for a solo visit every now and then, usually the evening before a holiday. We sat at the table and chatted over a cup of coffee and some toast. She always offered some of her precious cherry preserves, but I usually declined. I got more pleasure by watching her enjoy this little treat.

Some fifteen years or so after my mother’s passing, I thought I’d become accustomed to this void in my life. But, one day, I had an idea, and I bought a jar of cherry preserves on the way home from work.

Later that night when the house was quiet, I sat with a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, covered with cherry preserves. And I remembered my mom.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.