I hummed an old tune my late husband used to whistle, feeling the quiet peace of a home that had grown too quiet since he passed.
Twelve jars sat in a neat row, ruby-red and gleaming.
I imagined my grandchildren’s faces when they tasted them.
The phone rang.
I imagined my grandchildren’s faces
My daughter-in-law’s name lit up the screen.
« Margaret, thank goodness you answered, » she said.
Her voice was thin and hurried.