I stand in my father’s shattered backyard, plucking cherries. So big, sweet and meaty, I can’t help crying silently into my palms. Because it doesn’t make sense. They are so delicious this summer, so exceptionally good, but no one is left to make the cherry jam.
Sometimes, being an editor just takes your breath away. Quite literally, after I'd read the story above and selected it as my worthy Editor's Choice, this was the very next one to arrive – Gordon Nothing makes sense in this street: every fence is riddled with bullet holes, and the fragments of walls hold remnants of roofs like funny hats. People ant around the jigsaw puzzles of their blasted lives, still trying to keep the pattern. Their children play war, screaming, shooting plastic guns and calling each other Putin.
I stand in my father’s shattered backyard, plucking cherries. So big, sweet and meaty, I can’t help crying silently into my palms. Because it doesn’t make sense. They are so delicious this summer, so exceptionally good, but no one is left to make the cherry jam.
11 Comments
Glo Curl
3/5/2024 09:30:05 am
Cut to the heart. Sending hugs from UK, Malvina.
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Tony
3/5/2024 12:57:20 pm
Well done. Slava Ukraini!
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Pamela Kennedy
3/5/2024 01:20:20 pm
So very heart wrenching....
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Cheryl Dahlstrand
3/5/2024 06:49:37 pm
Written as fiction, however, true, true, true.
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Jennifer Duncan
3/5/2024 11:50:43 pm
Beautiful story. The juxtaposition of the devastation of war and the lush richness of the cherries. And then bringing it all together in the day to day jam making.
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Stephen Goodlad
4/5/2024 06:00:45 pm
I feel like crying with you. So sad.
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Sue Clayton
5/5/2024 06:54:56 am
Her stories grab you every time.
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Larry Maier
8/5/2024 01:40:49 am
Yeah ripening cherries don't care about war. Life can go on amidst death. Wonderful story!
Reply
Tom Baldwin
8/5/2024 06:27:34 am
So poignant, Malvina.
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