His voice brings to my mind the intoxicating substance stored in my kitchen shelf – packed tightly and sealed close inside two hundred and sixty-five of my Grandma Betsy’s vintage jars. (Yes, I counted. Yes, accurately. No, I’m not a mathematician but I can count. Yes, I am sure.)

Lore of a secret recipe our ancestors passed down for decades. (Inarguably the best one in town.)

I start off each day with a meal of marmalade spread on rye

At the very moment the rooster crows, signalling the beginning of the day

I find myself seated at the kitchen table with my legs crossed, eyes marvelling sunrise, teeth nibbling on my breakfast things.

I remember telling my Grandma Betsy…

About how

His name feels like a secret that tingles on the edge of one’s wintry lips,

It seeps unto my taste buds, then blooms as if ripe fruit on my tongue.

I felt like I just died and floated up to heaven.

I savor the sweetness of his words,

It’s so authentic,

pleasant and

Non-artificial

I keep craving for more

But

There’re only two hundred and sixty-five jars of marmalade jam left in store

Two hundred and sixty-five jars of marmalade jam

I won’t ever have enough of.