Mary Ann Honaker

My mom makes a croak like a big bullfrog in a bog. My dad, like a cat about to vomit. I make a sound like an arrow-shot doe collapsing, as the brown and once-living leaves embrace her in their scent. This is not the part of life where the dandelions first pop into color, but

She’s in her own little world, says one man to the other, as I walk by their front porch where they sit and drink beer with the front door wide open. Actually, I’m harvesting encounters: tiger lilies planted by a driveway, a bursting snowball bush, the curious way one tree’s branch turned ninety degrees to