It was the pale translucence
of the jelly in the glass
when grandmother had set it
in the window where the sun
made the warm colors glow
as if with their own light
that must have struck me
as a child
since that almost ethereal
light and color
still come through clear
nearly eight decades later

I remember how she took me
to pick quinces
just the two of us
that time when I was
all of four or five
we walked together
down the gravel drive
or was it dirt?
below the house
and out along the paved road
possibly a hundred yards
to where she'd found
a quince bush growing
small but well endowed with fruit
which we two picked

All this came back to mind
seeing the quince tree
by the fence that runs
along the parking lot
where I had stopped
to meet a friend
a tree with fruit still hanging
like bedraggled Christas ornaments
on the upper branches
out of reach

Coming back with our long handled picker
I harvested a dozen or so quinces
a sad looking lot
after the frost
and rainy weather
but they cleaned up nicely
and while cooking
filled the house with
a sweet fragrance
it made nearly a quart
not quite as pale as grandma's
but clear and warm
the color of the strands
of amber beads she liked to wear

I've set the jars aside
and once the jelly's cooled
we'll find out if the flavor
is a match for the sweet fragrance
that my wife and I enjoyed
but no matter how delicious
it will never match
my memory of the grandmother I loved
nor that first taste of sugared quince
spooned from a jar
in grandma's country kitchen