Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

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Peach Jam

By Steve Zikman

Backpacking through the African mountain kingdom of Lesotho, I carried

a

staple of food with me just in case I couldn't find something to eat. I

always

had a few cans of spaghetti, crackers peanut butter, and jam.

I was browsing through a local market one day when I chanced upon a

jar of

peach jam. I could find tins of apricot and strawberry in every corner

store

but this was the first time I had seen peach. I grabbed it.

For the next few weeks, when I was feeling the need for a little

treat, I

would carefully remove the lid and spoon a bit on to a cracker along with

some

peanut butter. Mmm, delicious. I didn't share it with anybody. It sat

safely

in my pack, taken out on only special occasions.

One cold and cloudy afternoon, I was waiting for a local bus. As much

as I

tried to dismiss my shivering, I was miserable. It seemed that the bus

would

never arrive.

It started to rain and very quickly the drizzle turned into a

downpour.

Everybody scattered for shelter. I took cover under a makeshift bamboo

food

stand with an old woman. I was drenched and quickly searched through my

pack

for some dry clothes.

In my desperate haste to avoid further discomfort, I forgot that the

jar of

peach jam was buried in my clothing. One forceful yank and my precious

delicacy

crashed to the concrete, smashing into pieces.

As often happens when traveling alone, the vultures of self-pity

descended.

I looked down at the raindrops, the mud and the morsels of peach and

mourned my

loss.

And then, in the corner of my eye, I noticed an old woman approaching.

She

looked up at me, down at the jam, and then back up at me. Without

hesitating

any further, she walked towards the fruity mess. Quickly, she bent down

and

retrieved the half of the jar that was still intact.

Still stooped over, she stuck two fingers into the jar, scooped out

the

remaining jam and placed it into her toothless mouth. Carefully, like fish

bones, she spit out the shards of glass and smeared her finger along the

bottom

to extract every last drop. She studied the shattered container until she

was

certain that there was nothing left.

The empty jar in hand, she turned to walk away. I reached into my

pack and

offered her my cans of spaghetti and crackers. She accepted. However,

before I

could give her the peanut butter, she scurried off and I watched as she

guided

her hungry grandchildren back into their humble hut.

My bus arrived shortly after and, as we drove off, I looked back and

saw

her grandson wiping the food from his mouth. I knew then that peach jam

would

never taste the same to me again.