Apple Butter: For My Mother

There was a kind of reverence in her hands—
in the way she stirred slow,
wooden spoon tracing tender circles
through apples softened by time and touch.
Cinnamon rising like whispered prayer,
the heat of the stove wrapping the room
in something warmer than fire.

She made it for me.
Only me.
In a house full of mouths
that did not ask for sweetness.

The jar sat on the highest shelf,
hidden in plain sight,
waiting for my hunger,
my toast,
my tiny, eager hands
searching for something sacred.

Sandwiches spread with a mother’s devotion—
no fanfare, no applause,
just quiet knowing.
A small ritual of love in the form of fruit and spice.
An ordinary miracle she crafted
because she remembered I liked it.
Because I was the only one who did.

And what is love,
if not that?
To choose the thing that only one child asks for,
and make it anyway.

Her hands were where the care lived—
in the turning, the folding, the waiting.
In the way she held silence like a soft cloth,
never needing to say
“I love you”
out loud,
because she’d already spread it across every slice of bread.

But then—

Then the sweetness soured.
The kitchen grew quiet.
The jars stayed sealed.

I wonder when the light dimmed,
when the darkness began to seep into the edges—
was it a slow leak or a flood?
Was it the ridicule of salt on pizza,
not playful, but cruel?
The dismissal of her music,
not different,
but lesser?
Was it lemons she loved
being turned into character flaws?

Or was it worse—
the kind of slow erosion
that comes from loving someone
who cannot love what you love?
From being told
that the labour of a homemaker
is invisible,
invalid,
unworthy
because it cannot be taxed or tallied?

I wonder how long she swallowed that,
held it in her throat
like a spoonful of spoiled jam,
until the bitterness took root.

And I—
too young to name it,
too sheltered to see it—
let her drift into that loneliness
without a lifeline.

I wish I’d had the language.
The clarity.
The righteous fire I’ve found in the years since.
I wish I could have said:
“You deserve more.”
I wish I’d known how to help her
find the partner her softness craved—
a partner in feminine energy,
in sanctuary,
in shared salt and lemon love.

But time is a thief
and regret its shadow.

Still—
I remember the apple butter.

And maybe she does too.
Maybe in some quiet, untouched part of her soul,
it still lives.
The scent of cinnamon.
The spoon in her hand.
The knowledge
that she was seen.
That she was loved,
deeply,
in return.

And I—
I will carry that memory forward.
I will stir sweetness from sorrow.
I will spread her love thick on my toast,
and bite down
on the kind of devotion
that never really left.