He found the honey jar
at the back of the
pantry, lid rusted,
label faded. His
grandmother's handwriting,
a loop of cursive:
for sore throats
. He twisted it open;
the smell hit him —
clover and dust and her
apron.
He stood in the kitchen,
the tile cold under his
feet. The clock ticked
too loud. He dipped a
finger in, tasted the
crystallized gold. It was
still sweet, still
thick, like the way
she'd hugged him after
school, pressing his face
into her shoulder until
he couldn't breathe.
He set the jar on the
counter, ran his thumb
along the rim. The phone
rang in the other room.
He didn't answer. He
just stood there, holding
the jar against his
chest, the glass warming
to his heartbeat. The
honey dripped slow down
his wrist.