A TASTE OF HONEY
You
expect to find that your childhood home is older. You also find it smaller. Duller.
The neighborhood is confined, insulated, a world unto itself. You wouldn’t fit in even if it were
ship-shape and clean of graffiti and rusting cars. Even if there were neat plantings in front of
each house and window boxes with flowers and children playing hop-scotch or
roller skating on the sidewalks. Even if
the older folks sat on their front porches on a summer night and gossiped. You
know it would not be your home anymore.
the
taste of honey
dissolving
into
nothing
