Bethany Garrison

There was a man who used to sell honey on the roadside in between two small mountain towns, the kind with only two stoplights and one grocery each, those beautiful kind of towns, and everyone knew this man outside of Macon county selling that gold in Mason jars around the bends of the Savannah River Basin, cars rolling twenty miles round the rhododendron under power lines hanging so low amongst the sad, split trees that made you wonder if there was any electricity at all, but Honey man always stood tall in front of that rickety cart, his mother’s, with a tartan cloth over the oak surface, with a smile under that white ‘stache, thick and rough like his calloused hands, like the occasional snow piled on the side of the road, waiting to melt, waiting for spring, watching over the Blue Ridge mountains, where I stood today in the wildlife viewing area, the local woman’s words in my head: there was a man who used to sell honey on the roadside.



Courtesy of the Creative Writing Program at Chapel Hill.

Bethany Garrison

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