A Jar of Apricot Marmalade

I knew, even before taking one step inside, what it would do to me.

Walking through the door a gust of nostalgia hit me.  Smells of fresh breads and raw meat knocked me back like a title wave.  I don't even eat meat, but the aroma felt like a fuzzy blanket wrapped around me.  I didn't even know I was shivering.

A long glass case filled three walls, with more variety than I've seen at any butcher shop.  Rows of sausages jumbled together, three different types of head cheese, cuts of meat I never heard of.  A tightness rose to my chest, but not the usual how-disgusting-I'm-going-to-be-sick tightness.

Along the front window were multitudes of yellows, greens and browns.  The mustards, soups, and seeds from far away places.  Brands from my childhood I forgot existed flashed out at me.  The girls fought over the different candies.  Who knew gummies came in multicolored frogs and fish and double cherries stuck together?

When I saw the jars I froze.  This, I was not expecting.  The white label was hauntingly familiar.  I gingerly picked up the apricot to examine it closer.  Product of Austria.  Tears made of memories filled my eyes.  Breakfasts with my grandmother.  The sweet taste of schwarzbrot and butter mixed with the tangy, bright-orange marmalade.  I wanted to hold that jar forever.

Snippets from my childhood were there, and my heart ached to be there.  Not there in the store, but the There of my childhood.  Where a jar of apricot marmalade was an every-day breakfast, not a distant and bitter-sweet memory.

I did not want to leave.  But we had to go.  Like always.  We can not stay in one place forever.


xo.
Christine