It was a ghost in the form of a mason jar.
She sent me a text with the image of our honey,
the liquid gold we collected from benedictine bees.
Several jars were discovered in her mom's basement,
and like Mary watching Lazarus wake from the dead,
I gasped at the image glowing on my phone.
Just a spoonful of that crystallized nectar of the gods
could send me into deep recollection--
sweet threads swirled into pots of herbal tea,
a generous serving spread over warm wheat bread,
sheets of phyllo dough united with layers upon
layers of butter and bee spit to make
Baklava in celebration of my vows.
She promises to bring me a jar when she
visits this summer, and I fear the power
of its beauty will draw my children's hearts
away from mine into the hills of Maryland.
They will wear long robes and tend the
bee hives with great skill and sadness.
