The last jar of last June’s strawberry jam rests empty on my kitchen counter, clotted and sticky. David looks sad. The dog hangs his head as though scolded though he had nothing to do with the quandary we face, writes Anne-Marie Oomen. It was purely luck that last summer’s strawberry jam made it from last solstice to this one. That jam is holy, that jam is winter survival, that jam is antidote to cloud laden days when sunlight is veiled in some stratospheric turbulence the size of Jupiter. That rosy jam spread thick on brown bread reminds us that light does exist. I lick the rim of the jar. Clearly, the succulence that saves us must be replenished.