Remembered Raspberries
Remembered Raspberries
Written by Seni Senevirante
As children we gathered raspberries, foraging throughthe jungle of bushes halfway down our garden.
Six eyes searched the tangled green for flash of red.
Never mind the prickles, the stinging weals along our arms and legs
were worth the prize we carried whole into our mouths,
where impatient tongues pressed each precious bubble
into tiny tremors of delight, until we were overflowing with juices.
But still, we had bowlsful left to carry proudly
to my father’s kitchen (his domain only on jam making da)
where the pressure cooker steamed and gurgled high above us.
We swayed on tiptoe, stretched our eyes to watch the treasures
Tumble into bubbling sticky heat, until his words, Stand back,
before those bubbles burn and peel your skin away in layers,
chased us, shrieking, from the danger to the dining table.
There, our restless, red-stained fingers daubed the sterile jars,
toyed with kits of rubber seals, elastic bands and greaseproof
paper circles. We squirmed and learned to wait for jam
to cook and cool. Later, spoon by spoon, we filled the jars
to just below the rim, sealed the summer, stored it airtight
on the highest shelf, in the cupboard under the stairs.