lucid · 2026.10.28
The jars were already filled and waiting on the shelf when I lifted the first one down — pickled figs, the syrup gone amber at the rim. I was labeling them for the winter market, my hands still smelling of the vinegar I'd used to wipe the lids, a sharpness that stayed in the knuckles. The labels were the good ones, the cream stock from the print shop on Fenwick Row, and I wrote each date in pencil first, pressing hard enough to leave a groove I could feel with my thumb.