Grandpa sat smoking his pipe on the veranda. He hadn’t spoken in the two months since Grandma’s death. Every day, he would sit there staring out into the garden as if waiting for her to return.
One afternoon, I followed his gaze to the patch of raspberry bushes just beyond the olive trees. They looked ready for picking, so I decided to collect them and make jam—just the way Grandma had shown me.
Once finished, I placed it on a scone and gave it to him. As I walked away, he called, “Thank you, Josie, it tastes just like Grandma’s.”