The Taste of Jam—The Taste of Loss
Oliver woke early, as always. But instead of the usual scent of pancakes or crumpets wafting through the flat, there was silence. Cold, unnatural. Even the kettle sat unlit on the stove. He sat up in bed, listening. No creak of floorboards, no hum of the extractor fan, no muffled murmuring from Grandma, who would usually be puttering about the kitchen, humming to herself. His chest tightened.
He bolted to her room. She lay on her side, as if she’d tried to rise but couldn’t. One hand dangled limply from the bed, her eyes half-shut. Oliver rushed to her:
“Gran! What’s wrong?”
Her lips barely moved. Gently, he turned her onto her back, then scrambled for the phone. His hands shook as he dialed for an ambulance. Then he gathered her things—nightgown, dressing gown, slippers—naming each aloud, as if words could drown out the crushing silence that felt foreign and terrifying.
When the paramedics arrived, one pulled Oliver aside.
“You’re her grandson? I’ll be straight with you. It’s bad. At her age, chances are slim. If she pulls through, she won’t walk again. Might not even speak. Brace yourself.”
Oliver refused to believe it. This was *Gran*—his sturdy, lively Gran, with that spark in her eyes! She’d weathered the Thatcher years, raised him single-handed… How could she not pull through?
He held her hand all the way to the hospital, promising her it would be alright. That he’d stay by her side.
When they took her for scans, Oliver waited. His mind reeled: just yesterday, she’d stood at the stove, coaxing him to eat *”just one more crumpet.”* Now she lay motionless. Her hand, always so strong, felt brittle as a dried twig.
He thought of their life together. His mother had left him as a baby—flitted off to Canada and never returned. His father was a stranger. Gran was his whole world. And him? How often had he snapped at her, slammed doors? She’d only sighed and ruffled his hair.
On the third day, he arrived to an empty bed.
“She passed in the night,” said the woman in the next bed, spooning porridge.
Oliver staggered into the corridor, found the doctor. Certificates were pressed into his hands, words mumbled about funerals, but they faded into noise. He walked home as if in a trance.
At home, his boss called:
“Either you’re back in two days, or don’t bother coming back at all.”
“Sack me, then,” Oliver said, and hung up.
A handful of elderly strangers came to the funeral. The neighbor helped with arrangements. Oliver sat at the table, staring at Gran’s photo in its black frame. She smiled from it, as if saying, *”Don’t fret. It’ll all be fine.”*
Later, the neighbor asked,
“Did you know your mother came by?”
Oliver froze. No. He hadn’t. She’d wanted to sell the flat, take him to Canada—her new bloke’s business had gone belly-up.
“Did Gran know?” he whispered.
“She did. It worried her sick. Feared you’d leave and end up alone again.”
Oliver tracked his mother down. A budget hotel. She didn’t even look surprised.
“You’ve grown handsome. Spitting image of your dad. Shame you’ve my temper,” she said with a tight smile. “The flat’s half mine, you know. I need the money.”
“Gran left it all to me. You get nothing,” Oliver said.
Her face twisted.
“You’re lying! I’ll take you to court!”
“She’s *dead*. And you couldn’t even show up. Get out. I don’t know you. Don’t *want* to.”
He walked away and didn’t look back.
Days later, a knock at the door.
“Hello. From the agency. You’d booked a carer?”
“She’s gone,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” the girl murmured. “Lost my mum recently too.”
They drank tea in the kitchen. She didn’t touch Gran’s cup. Talked about her own mother. Then she said,
“Close your eyes. Think of a taste that was just hers.”
“Strawberry jam,” Oliver whispered. “Could’ve eaten a whole jar.”
“Remember it. Really taste it. And she’s here. You’re not alone.”
Oliver closed his eyes. And Gran—his wonderful, fierce Gran—was there again, just as he remembered her.