Golden Honey Jars on a Sunny Counter in Sweetwater

their roofs covered in yellow leaves. Every year since I was thirty, we had set our golden jars on those counters, the light shining through the glass until they looked like little lanterns.

We drove back to the farm in David’s truck, the engine knocking every time we hit an incline. The air in the cab smelled of old grease and the dry grass we had continue reading …