THE 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
Bottle Rockets
