The Farmer's Market

When I was a kid, I used to trot behind my grandma,
attached to her as an extra appendage. I loved that
the place lived and breathed slowly, like a person
content to be lethargic—hands in overall pockets,
chewing on unlit cigarettes, sending
genuine goodwill to people who buy,
and people who don't.




There was an area where tables groaned
beneath heavy Mason jars just barely within my reach.
I wonder now how Mr. Pope could stay in business
selling nothing but honey, but he did,
right up until the day he died.
That's what mattered, in the end.
Or that's what folks said mattered, anyway.

On one such visit, Grandma dropped a warm jar into my hands,
"Turnnat over. You want them air pockets to go up nice and slow.
That's how y'know the honey's good. See there,"
She pointed at the jar, satisfied.
"This one's pure liquid gold.
Lot of people ain't brought up to understand
That you can't drizzle a platinum ring over a biscuit,
Or drink hot diamond water when you've got a sore throat."

I was instantly confused, but I tried not to show it.
I squinted at her through the golden contents of the jar and nodded.
"That's all there is to bein' an adult, baby,
Realizing the difference between what's expensive
and what's downright important."

She turned around to talk to Mr. Pope about
crime rates, politics, taxes, and other things that
sank into background music. I flipped jar after jar,
setting them back onto the table upside down and
imagined that being an adult really isn't that hard
if all you have to do is watch golden bubbles rise
and disappear until someone finally sets them free.



K. Thornton
May 2010