Serenity - A Journal Of Some Sort

birthday honey

I've still got his honey on our pantry shelf. He raised bees, gave me honey for my birthday. It was sweet.

Honey doesn't go bad. It's still sitting there, good as anything, just a little crystallized and overshadowed by the new jars of honey we've bought from the store. 

His family's name is still etched on the cap of the jar, in his mom's squiggly cursive.

I can't bring myself to open it.

Old honey, I guess, is like feelings. They don't go away. You can push it to the side all you want, but as soon as you tap into them, they're still there. Only a little muddled by all the time that went by. All it takes is a little scooping out of the crystals blocking the memories, and it's still there, rich and decadent, but then it gets all over you and takes forever to clean off. 

I've asked if we could throw it out.

Why? It's good honey. We might use it one day, my mom says. 

Some people just don't let you throw out feelings that easily.