Living in an apartment most of my young life, I didn’t really understand the basement of my grandmother. The room at the bottom of the stairs was stacked with glass jars filled with fruit and vegetables. She “canned.” I didn’t really know what that meant. No one really explained it to me. I’m ashamed to say, I wondered if we, they, were poor. Did we have to save this food in these jars? Were we preparing for something terrible to happen? I didn’t know – and I was afraid to ask.

I loved my grandma. She had a twinkle that came from some inner assuredness, so my worry didn’t last long. And I forgot about it.
Peaches have begun to pop out on our front yard tree. Each year when they blossom and then give fruit, it feels like a tiny miracle. They are beautiful. A melding of orange and yellow and red. I imagine the tiny angels that come in the night with brushes and release all the colors, just for us to give a wow in the morning sun!

In a few weeks, I will pick these peaches and peel them. After I take the skin off, the fruit is almost without color, a pale yellow at best, but then when I boil them, they release into the most glorious color of, well, peach! It is stunning. And the magic continues.

As each jar is emptied, over fresh baked bread, or brioche, or just by the spoonful, I am taken on a sticky hand trip, across the ocean, chubby fingers locked in my grandma’s, walking down the stairs to her glorious basement. “I see it now,” I tell her. “It’s magic and it’s beautiful!”

My grandma came last night with the other angels. The peaches fill the tree and the morning air says, “Wow!”