Plum Jam

While organizing all of the files on my computer of my old writing assignments from college, current projects, and screengrabs of favorite pieces from places like "Brevity" and "SmokeLong Quarterly," I found a short piece I wrote during my second quarter at WWU in Bellingham, Washington in 2019.

I was having a hard time getting used to life on my own, and was especially struggling with a major case of college burnout, so a lot of the things I wrote that quarter took on the same general theme of familiarity and coziness.

I wrote about the concept of home, and my mom, quite a bit.

So, with Mother's Day fast approaching, and my own mom's birthday a few days after that, I thought I'd take the time to share a piece I wrote about identity, loneliness, home, and my mom:

Plum Jam

Sitting on the edge of my freshly made bed, I could still feel the balls of my feet pulsing from a shift of standing in silence with nothing better to do than count the store’s 130 ceiling tiles, but I couldn’t feel the rest of me. I pulled my wet hair from the twisted towel on top of my head, and the clumps that fell loosely around my shoulders looked like garden snakes dangling, tangled, from my scalp.

I stared at myself in the mirrors that made up my sliding closet doors, thinking about Medusa’s cold eyes turning anyone who looked at her to stone, and the thing staring back at me felt unrecognizable.

Uninvited.

Almost alien.

When had my hair gotten so long? Was there always a mole on my collarbone? Where had I gotten the now yellowing bruise on the side of my thigh?

I relaxed my face and watched as the corners of my mouth moved ever so slightly toward the floor.

“Smile. Just fucking smile,” I yelled at the imposter.

The purple hued crescent moons under my eyes got deeper with each second I spent keeping them open, and even the pink flush of my hot shower-water skin was doing nothing to hide the fact that my body felt like it was slowly turning to stone.

***

I was home, but not really.

You can call anything a home if you aren’t thinking about it too much. And by “it” I mean the word home, and the weight those four letters carry.

That same week, I shouted through the bathroom door, over the sound of my roommate’s hair dryer, and asked: “Are you coming home after your eight-thirty today?”

I didn't catch myself until the words had already pushed past my teeth and out into the world, but using the word home wasn’t something I felt obligated to correct out loud.

To her it was a home, at least in that moment, but to me it was “the apartment.”

Nothing except my name on the lease implied ownership of that sad excuse for a place to sleep and store my books.

***

I couldn’t stand looking at my reflection any longer. A few more seconds and she probably would have smiled at me and beckoned to join her through the glass, and maybe I wouldn’t have been able to resist such a tempting offer.

I flung my body backward and sprawled out naked on the bed just to switch to staring at the ceiling instead. There were no tiles to count, so I watched the light on the smoke detector blink green. It always blinked 30 times before turning solid red for a few seconds, and then quickly shifted back to green. The pattern never changed.

It’s probably bored, I thought, as I felt myself slowly being swallowed by the bright white walls of my glorified hotel room.

My tears gave no warning before storming barricades of eyelids and eyelashes, but I stayed still and let the troops wreak havoc across the terrain of my skin as they made their way down the sides of my face.

***

I was home only in Merriam Webster’s first definition of the word, because to me a true home wasn’t where I couldn’t paint the walls or stick tacks through the drywall to hang my Fight Club poster. And it definitely wasn't where I sat alone on the floor of a half-lit kitchen and ate leftover fried rice from QQ Li’s while I fantasized about being done with college so I could finally just get out of there.

***

My cheeks started to itch from the trails of tears drying on the surface of my skin, but I ignored them and started writing a list instead.

Home is:

- deep ochre colored walls

- homemade plum jam

- feather earrings

- meat and bean casserole

- the song “Footloose” and dancing in the living room

- dried rosemary

- poetry anthologies

- Tuesday nights at the Garland Theater

- different songs playing in different rooms

- lavender lotion

It didn't take long before I stopped writing and reached for my phone to dial her number.

She answered on the first ring, and immediately asked if the plum jam she sent in the mail only the day before had made it yet.

***

Home, for a 21 year-old girl who moved away for the first time, is everything familiar all wrapped up into the sound of her mother’s voice.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If this piece made you crave plum jam, follow this link to Taste of Home's complete guide to making plum jam: https://www.tasteofhome.com/article/how-to-make-plum-jam/

If you've liked what you've read, please keep an eye out for my upcoming articles and stories on Vocal!

If this piece resonated with you, or reminded you to call the ones you love just to hear their voice, please share with your friends on social media.

If you'd like to support original content and independent content creators, leaving a small tip is always greatly appreciated.

Thank you!