HONEYSUCKLES In Memoriam
We lost a lot of church kickballs and candy wrappers in those parking lot bushes. On summer nights when the blossoms were full, the petals lay curled back—soft and open—and we would gorge ourselves. Pluck, pull, sip, throw the empty flowers to the asphalt at our feet. They collected there in a wilted heap, tingeing brown before sunset–– each drop of dew dissolving on our tongues faster than we could taste it. But we ravaged on, only leaving them when the mosquitoes bit.
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Written By Kaylee Troxel
