Honey

Honey. 

It’s the word I pull on a Tuesday morning in writing circle. It just so happens Tuesday is my favorite day, and honey, it’s always felt a little like time and love letting me down easy. I’m taken aback by the imagery that moves through my mind. Without any effort I see that gallon of gold Courtney brought me on a weary Wednesday in Wyoming, when I missed home, was hopeless and out of honey. I remember how it felt a little or a lot like love. So pure and translucent when touched and warmed, warm to the touch. So obstinate and unwavering when left to itself. Alone. Her gifted gallon still sticks and stirs inside me…

Octave’s first birthday cake, graham crackers, cookies, bread, butter, tea and snow stormy sore throats. This honey weaved through my days, my kitchen experiments, mishaps and regrets. A word is never just a word. It’s an entire universe billowing with context, detail and meaning. Honey, I look up from paper once more. I keep looking, to make sure it’s still there. That all this is real. I see the letters and how they flatter themselves upon humble, sticky paper. The irony is not lost on me, and suddenly I see Courtney’s laugh, see her bright smile, hear her Subaru pulling into my drive way on 7th street. That quaint blue house across from the cemetery and crack house. I suppose it wasn’t really a crack house, I just wasn’t accustomed  to God’s country, guns and creepy vans. I remember how we would peek through our shades at dusk, make up ridiculous stories of the neighbors we would never know and sadly never feel any remorse about not knowing. We did not belong, but with Courtney we did. And then I feel her open heart and see her adorable cheeky, always drooling babe, Truman sitting in my creaky kitchen across from Octave. The kitchen where I would define myself, become myself. That kitchen. That honey. I taste Spring. Spring in Wyoming. Honey, because a word is never just a word. And people, and tastes, they leave lasting impressions on our souls.