I Am Never Disappointed by Honeysuckle

Bitter paths can lead to sweet endings.

author’s young daughter | all images taken by author

“You smell like memories.”

I’m in the middle of a workout in my bedroom and my teenage daughter just walked in. She plops herself on my bed as I do my lunges. Her hair is blue and perfectly imperfect, because her hair grows like mine does — undecided and independent.

“I smell like memories? That’s beautiful, baby. What kind of memories?”

I had just dabbed some honeysuckle oil behind my ears. Fragrance is very important to me. I smell like something different every day because I feel like something different every day. It’s part of the childhood residue of a skilled shape-shifter. And I’ve always matched my scent to my mood. Sometimes I match my scent to the mood I hope to be in.

Today, I just wanted to feel pretty.

And there aren’t a lot of scents that smell as pretty in such a simple way as honeysuckle.

Roses smell beautiful, but they try so hard to be. Lilies are intoxicating and let everyone know they’re there. Gardenias smell gorgeous, but there is nothing like the delicate aroma that a wild vine of honeysuckle whispers in a space.

My daughter said it reminded her of all the walks we would take down our favorite shady road when she was little. The road that grows honeysuckle in the spring, and blackberries in the summer. The road where the bunnies are born and the robins eggs hatch. The road where butterflies flutter by, and frogs and bugs and squirrels are safe to cross because it’s a road that would never hurt them.

I used to take both of my babies on walks every day and we would collect leaves and rocks, and stop and marvel at what nature decided to gift us that day. I was a young mom without a lot of money, and I didn’t have any help during the day. So, we walked a lot. We created activities and joy from what was free for us.

she found a bug

And when it was honeysuckle season, we would collect them into unruly bouquets in our arms and begin our search for the juice. I taught my babies the proper way to find that one — maybe two — drops of nectar from each flower. If you’re too forceful about it, you’ll scare away the petals. Honeysuckle petals are bashful and delicate and require a tender touch.

You have to calm your breath and gently pinch the calyx with your fingernails, snap off only the tip without puncturing the petal, and then delicately pull out the stamen. And there you will find your one — maybe two — drops of nectar.

You place it on your tongue. And for a few seconds, you have a fairy’s sip of sweetness.

Honeysuckle juice is one of nature’s finest and fleeting pleasures. And no matter how many times I have approached a wildfire of suckles and their patient honey, the excitement still matches that tiny moment of taste.

I am never disappointed by honeysuckle. Their predictability comforts me.

Though my childhood was overflowing with these juicy petals, even as a child with the patience of dragonfly wings, I was never disappointed by those tiny honeysuckle moments.

As sweet as the memory of collecting the juice is for both me and my daughter, my road to that sweetness was bitter.

Apart from the time I spent with my Nama in the city, I never felt correctly placed as a child. I’d ask to visit her whenever I had the chance to. Nama called me sugar and cooked me softly scrambled eggs and buttered white rice. She listened and asked me things. She made me feel pretty and sweet.

I have sugar in her handwriting tattooed on my left forearm so I’m always reminded that I was made of sweetness.

Back home, the woman who raised me wanted to be around me as little as possible. So she’d cast me outdoors and I’d have to figure out what play meant.

Unless it was storming, I was ordered to be outside. Never given any direction, I’d be under the pecan tree eating snake berries. Sometimes I was hunting for snake eggs in the garden where the forgotten zucchini hid beneath the rotting tomatoes. If it were late enough in the afternoon, I’d scale the walls of the doctor’s office next door and lie on the roof looking at the clouds. I’d make up songs. I’d act out stories.

I never remember feeling sad or unhappy on my own. Lonely was something I was used to. In a way, I feel like I was an only child. I had a sibling, but his rules were different than mine. I had more to prove and fight for. He came out just fine.

I had a colorful imagination, as most kids left alone often do, so I never truly felt alone. And out there by myself was a much better environment than being around the family who didn’t know what to do with me.

A lot of my outside time was spent on the retired train tracks that ran through the woods behind the house. I’d find used needles, single socks and old Sucrets tins filled with joint buds and pills. I’d create stories about how they got there and the characters they once belonged to.

I’d walk along the open tracks on the bridge above the highway and feel brave with every step I took over the whizzing cars below. One tiny mistake in a plastic flipflop, and I’d have fallen through.

Sometimes I’d just stop and stare below me. Tiny feet precariously planted on the rotting planks of a phantom railway. Standing on something forgotten felt right. Cars raced beneath me with places to be. It felt like everyone had somewhere to be but me.

Nobody knew where I was. Nobody was looking. And somehow that made every step feel more important. Like I was daring the world to care about me before I learned I didn’t need it to. I wasn’t trying to get hurt. I was trying to matter. I was nine years old and already practicing the art of surviving without an audience.

I think I just needed to prove that I was worthy of saving.

I was free to be a wild child outdoors when she didn’t want to have anything to do with me. But as soon as she needed something to make herself feel big again, I was on duty. She’d keep me inside to pick on me. I was an easy target. Groomed to be small and quiet and allow the adults to dictate my presence.

I was only allowed to have long hair and I never liked it; it always got in my way. My hair is thin and fine, so it was always tangled. I’d wear it up as much as I could but she preferred I wore headbands — those hard plastic ones with teeth that bite. They’d give me headaches and she’d make fun of me for being tender-headed.

My weight was heavily monitored and mocked. I was a confused and lost kid in that house, so I ate my feelings and looked for love in every bite. And since I wasn’t allowed anything sweet or packaged, I’d covet and hide any treats I found in my room.

She’d find little food memories under my bed, and instead of taking me to speak to someone about eating disorders, she made fun of me for it. She told the story at parties when she’d had too many fuzzy navels and needed to feel big again.

Growing up like this — being too much and not enough at the same time — that never really goes away. It’s a scar that when placed in the right light will reveal itself, but mostly stays hidden in the shadows. And over time you stop trying to cover it up and decide it’s simply a part of you. It’s proof of how many scary steps you’ve taken across so many bridges that you’ve had to burn.

What I have learned from no longer having my birth family in my life is that it would be really easy for me to just label everything as bitter. I could blame everything that goes wrong in my day on the fact that I was not properly loved as a child. What an easy bandage to place over every seeping wound. But that wouldn’t serve me. That’s not who I have chosen to be.

I may not have come from a sweet family, but I have created one.

The honeysuckle has gotten stronger as my body has warmed. I feel sweet and pretty.

“When can we go down that road for honeysuckle again?”

She’s been half watching me workout, half playing with the one cat that allows affection.

“We can go down that road anytime you want! The honeysuckles should still be there.”

She looks down at her hands and picks at her chipped black polished fingernails. She’s 15 now, and I’m reminded every day of how short life with my baby girl really is. I’ve never once sent her outside by herself. Every memory she has, I share. That won’t be the case for long, but right now it’s a sweet truth I’m going to savor.

“Let’s go tomorrow. I don’t want to miss them. And then maybe we’ll go again next week?”

I pause, and hide my smile under my forearm with Nama’s writing.

“Whatever you want, sugar. I’d love that.”