My grandmother, who was a large woman in a small
apartment by the time I knew her, would squeal when handling
the Flintstone jelly jars she used for serving juice—
she’d fill them up and marvel at the way
some cheerful TV cartoon kept lingering in her home.
Years later, after graduating college,
I stayed with her, and again would get the jelly jars,
taken reverentially from the open shelf in the tiny alcove,
and hear her marvel at the wonders of modernity—
how a character can be fused into glass
that might just be delivering jelly, but for this woman,
given what she’d endured, remained the gift to share with me.