Plum jam / West Coast Oranges

I’ve been thinking about getting old.

 

Not considering getting old: that would be

a luxury quite beyond me.

 

I am growing up;

Mother has grown a plum tree in the garden.

 

This year we had too many fruits,

the last almost none at all.

 

Lingering on each,

Brother and I pick them off,

 

one by one, noticing back inside

the sun stains on our cheeks.

 

We remember West Coast oranges

and our small cousin there

in similar heat, her gap-toothed grin.

 

At six, she used to describe

anything in the past as ‘yesterday’ –

‘we did that yesterday’

 

when it was really last week;

‘when you visited us yesterday’ –

 

I could not tell her I had

not visited her in a year.

 

I return to the plums,

preserve them in a sturdy mason jar

 

pride of place on the kitchen table.

It is the middle of summer and

 

Brother hits his head on the doorframe.

I am accidentally called Mother’s name.

 

We share the jam stood around

news reports and fading sunlight.

 

I spread it on wholegrain toast

trying not to think about how

 

it is ever so slightly bitter. ∎

 

Words by Anushka Shah. Art by Nat Cheung.