Apricot Weeks

By late July the Osh bazaar smells of warm stone and fruit skin. The vendor I have bought from for years (we exchange few words, mostly nods and the occasional remark on the weather) had already set aside a crate when I arrived. Not the showiest apricots, but the ones that give under the thumb just enough. He knew I would take them. I paid, thanked him, and walked home with my arms full, juice already threatening the paper.

Jam had always seemed like other people's competence. I washed, stoned, sugared, and stirred, consulting a stained page torn from an old booklet. Most of the jars sulked. They cooled into a loose, luminous compote that refused the dignified set I had pictured. Exactly one jar sealed with that small, clean pop. I held it up to the window like a medal I had not earned and felt pride entirely out of proportion to the achievement. Dinara, when she stopped by, was kind enough not to laugh.

The failed batch I warmed in a saucepan the next morning and spooned over thick bread. It ran into the crust and pooled on the plate, tart and perfumed and honest. I ate it standing at the counter, then again the following day, and decided it was possibly better than the success. The sealed jar remains on the shelf, a bright orange proof. The runny stuff is already gone. Apricot weeks are short; I see no reason to ration joy that refuses to behave.