Sealed Against Air

Found it in the back, behind the chipped

enamel pot. A disc of white,

slightly yellowed, cracked. Paraffin.

The smell, like old crayons, or forgotten candles.

Grandma's kitchen, humid from the stove.

Her hands, scarred and capable,

pouring hot wax over jam jars.

The pop of the lid, the smooth, cool seal.

To keep the air out, she'd say.

To keep the good stuff in. And it worked.

Years, sometimes, those berries kept.

Now, this cold, brittle thing.

What did we keep in so well?

What did we seal away, without knowing

we'd never open it again?