Relish Making

Jars clatter against the pot.
Their lids cook clean in boiling water
drowning the flick-click of Sister’s peeler
as cucumber skins pile high.

Wonder Bread dangles from Mother’s mouth.
“Stops the tears,” she mumbles shoving
another half onion into the grinder.
She pushes faster than I can cut.

We are a coven of cooks
women from four different decades,
my daughter allowed for the first time
into our fall relish making.

Each year I forget turmeric stains.
Each year I am told use the old towel
to wipe the jars sparkling green
in the late day sun.

And only when we’re done
when all is clean and put away
does my daughter open the door
letting our men back into our lives.