Cranberry

Cranberry Grandma slices her jelled cranberries thin and leans out over the crowded table to divvy them amongst our plates. I slump into my straight-backed chair, hoping to be skipped. Clutching my glass with one hand, I pour milk from the jug with the other: too much salt in this year's ham has made us all thirsty. She sneaks me a slice, its round red tongue protruding into my gravied potatoes. Her eyebrows arch, waiting. The green-beans halt in my mother's hands. My aunt stops scolding a cousin; around the table clanks subside. The first thanksgiving after my grandpa's death, I scoop grandmother's cranberries off my plate. They quiver like part of her heart on my fork. Bitter berry, bitter fruit, I can barely choke you down. It's good, I tell her. It's good. —Chris Green 50 ...