HONEY

                                                            

 She used to take so much pride in her vegetable garden. I wasn’t allowed in it except to till the earth in the spring and pick the fruits of her labor in the fall. She would sit for hours on end, on her little mat, with her garden tools, stripping away each and every weed and imposter that didn’t belong there. Nothing was allowed there but what was intended to be there—the vegetables and the rich black earth they grew in. She would often work her way, from the far side, to the garden gate, so even her tracks wouldn’t show. Like everything she did, pride always took over and she made it so perfect.

After the angels came that July day and took her away, the garden quickly turned to weeds. I was overwhelmed with her passing and knew I couldn’t grow, or tend, a garden that would be up to her standards, so I didn’t even try. It would have been almost sacrilegious to her memory. So, on a warm summer day, I took the fence down, tilled it up, and planted grass seed and two apple trees. Now I wait patiently for spring, and for apple blossoms to bloom over that special spot.

Years ago, Bobby Goldsboro sang a song called, “Honey.” Some parts of it are so reminiscent of her, and the words and melody filter through my mind whenever I walk past that tiny plot of earth.

“One day when I was not at home while she was there and all alone, the angels came. Now all I have is memories of Honey and I wake up nights and call her name.  Now my life’s an empty stage where Honey lived and Honey played and love grew up.  And a small cloud passes overhead and cries down on the flowerbed. And honey I miss you and I’m being good and I long to be with you if only I could.”

Who knew that a song that I listened to, so many times over the last fifty years, would someday fit my mood so closely and seem so relevant. As if it had been written, with my situation in mind, as a melodious expression of how I feel today. Music has always been special in this way. To say something is one thing, but to put it to music makes it so much better. How many times have you searched for the words to say what you want to say and then—there they are—already written and put to music.

People tell me that someday I will turn a corner and the rest of my life will start again. I believe I am on the right path, but it’s not a journey I want to hurry. I can wait to get to that corner. For, you see, my life really started with her. It didn’t amount to much until she came along and completed me. Somehow, no matter what life brings from here on in, I am sure it will end with her, too. It would only be fitting. In the meantime, I’ll buy my vegetables; and the fruit from those apple trees will be awesome.