Last of the currant jam

Lew busied himself making tea while Mum sorted out two jars of her better-than-Harrods jam. Marvelous. Mum did not think she would be able to make it anymore. Picking the berries had become a very hard chore for them both.
“All that bending. Too old for it now, son. Not worth it,” Lew explained.
“Still, never mind, eh?” Mum was happy to move on and leave jam-making behind, somewhat resilient to the limitations age placed upon her.
“How’s the blackcurrant bush doing?” I inquired, smiling, trying to make conversation, trying to ignore what Lew was saying.
“Bigger than ever. Running wild it is, right, Jessie?”
“But who can pick ‘em?” she said, again with a slight nervous laugh.
I admired the two jars Mum had given to us. The tops were covered in parchment paper and tied with string. I held them up and studied them like bottles of fine wine, the last of the vintage.

"I love my stutter song!"

After dinner chat with Dad

Lew made for the Jack Daniels. I got the glasses. I wanted to ask him how Mum was doing, how he was coping, but Lew had other things on his mind.
“I’m going to be eighty-seven this year,” he said.
“Good for you,” I said cheerfully.
“Let me take the weight off me plates of meat.” He lowered himself gently into a chair.
“Cheers,” I said handing him a glass.
“I haven’t got much longer, son,” Lew sounded grave.
“I wouldn’t say that, Dad. You’ve quit smoking. You’re still getting about, you go up the top. You get the food in. Get the newspaper. Put your bets on.”
“It’s getting harder. A lot harder.”
“You can get some help. Have you thought about that? Take taxis.”
“Your mother won’t stand for that.”
He sniffed his drink, then downed it in one gulp. He let out a long, raspy breath and smiled a toothless grin.
“Where are your teeth?” I asked.
“In my pocket.”
“Really?”
“They’re alright, I wrapped them in me ‘ankerchief, now don’t worry about that. ”
“Well, that’s one way of keeping them clean, Dad.”
Ghrrr.