Little Glass Jars

by Kiera McManus

My parents sent me honey from

the bees in our backyard. Little

glass jar filled with amber. I can

tell what season it was made by

its certain color and its taste.

Like a capsule frozen in time,

the bottled sigh of a place. My

parents buy them by the pallet,

jars clinking together, wind chimes

lined up in a row, refracted

light that soon will glow gold.

We’d help my dad scrape it off the frames, through

the sieve, into buckets upon

buckets of liquid light, a sheer

abundance meant to be shared, not

sealed away. Packed with care and a

sticker my dad had custom made,

ready to be shipped far away,

so that I can have a taste of

columbine and crepe myrtle, of

black-eyed susan and daffodils,

of tulip poplars and of the

magnolia trees I used to

climb in, their heavy white flowers

thick with perfume. The honey holds

it in a little glass jar, and

promises that it’s all still there

~

Kiera McManus graduated from ESF in December 2023, where she studied Environmental Science with a concentration in renewable energy and a minor in Environmental Writing & Rhetoric.

Featured image: Photo by Art Rachen, 2020.