I may or may not have bought *another* bushel of peaches today to make into fruit leather. $12 at the local fruit stand. I may or may not already have 14 pint jars of peach jam and 26 quarts of bottled peaches, summer's sweetness preserved for winter's grey. I like to think of eating them in an igloo. The peachy hues set off by the blue ice. The jealous penguins looking on, flapping with envy. My grandmother showed me how to scald and peel and bottle and steam while she whirled around the kitchen, an effective storm of pulling order out of chaos. After she pulled the bottles from the heat, the sun streamed through the glass jars to reveal golden orbs of soft flesh. Such beauty. When I open each bottle this winter, I will think of her, apron tied daintly around her waist, peach after peach moving through her able hands, her laugh filling the steaming kitchen, a communion of sweetness.