The Postscript

My Aunt Ruthie used to make the best pickles ever.

Ruthie was my mom's sister, and she died a few years back in a car accident that left us all sad and shaken and filled with memories. I remember her dry humor and her sharp intellect and her voracious reading habits. I remember her never-ending kindness and resilience. And I remember her pickles.

Ruthie always gave me a jar of pickles whenever she made them. They were a treasure. One year, the glass Mason jar filled with pickles broke in my purse, and having a vinegar-soaked purse was inconsequential compared to the fear I might waste Aunt Ruthie's pickles. (I did not.)