deep · north pantry · last swept candlemas
where the shelves run back into the cold of the outside wall and the light from the small high window does not quite reach, there is a corner that even the longest broom does not finish. on its lowest shelf, three jars — green tomato, plum, and one whose label has lost itself to mould. a tin of mustard powder furred soft along the lid. a bottle of malt vinegar, dark almost to black.
a jar of crystallised honey from a vanished apiary. a paper twist of unidentified seeds. behind these, against the back wall, a single brass weight from a balance no longer in the house. the keeper has forgotten which year the plum was put up. the plum has not.
no cat ventures into the far end — too cold for paws. a child, sent for a jar, stops here and reads the labels aloud with a torch under their chin. the keeper takes the bottle of vinegar down on shrove tuesday and puts it back unopened on the same evening.
field-note: the dust on the jars here is the same age as the jars. they have been waiting together.