I hadn't intended to write anything for the MUSIC CHALLENGE 2026, but then I heard this song and got inspired. I hope you all enjoy it.
Honey (I Miss You)
"See the tree, how big it's grown, but friend, it hasn't been too long, it wasn't big."
I hate that fucking tree!
The same thought erupts every time I look out into my third of an acre backyard and see the five-year-old live oak that dominates the center of the space.
I know that I don't really hate the tree. It's just an insentient object after all. The reality is, I would protect that tree with my life if it ever came down to it. What I hate is that the tree is still thriving. It is still growing, bearing leaves, dropping acorns onto the grass, and symbolizing the loss of the beautiful woman who had wanted it so badly.
It is still alive. Still a vivid reminder. Therein lies the basis for my loathing and animosity towards this tree.
~~
Honey wasn't allowed to date until our senior year of high school. We could have chaperoned time together at our respective homes, school events such as dances, or with each of our families during gatherings. For the first two years of our relationship, Honey was frequently accompanying my family and me to some event, or I was doing so with hers.
This actually worked out well for us in the long run since both sets of parents were able to recognize the growing affection between myself and Honey, and they were all supportive of us having a future together. Honey and I were convinced that our mothers had been planning our wedding since our sixteenth birthdays, which were only two weeks apart.
Because Honey wasn't allowed to be alone in a car with any boy, for our sophomore and junior years of high school, I would drive my car to her house, and then we would walk together to school, holding hands and sharing our lives. We would frequently end up at her house after school, doing our homework up in her bedroom, which was permitted as long as we left the door open.
On my fourth visit to her bedroom, after I had finished my homework, Honey stopped me before I could gather all of my things to leave. Pulling me to the side of her room where we wouldn't be visible from the doorway, she put her arms around my neck, and whispered, "I have placed a Geis on you, and you are mine forever. Think of it as a love spell. You will be my man until you die."
We had been studying comparative mythology in the literature class where we had met, so I recognized her reference to the legendary power of a Geis as a curse. "Sweeter than honey" barely described the warmth and passion that her lips elicited in me the moment that they touched mine.
From that day forward, I couldn't get enough of her sweetness, and fortunately, her parents' restrictions on her dating didn't extend to casual expressions of affection between us, such as holding hands, sitting beside each other with my arm around her shoulder, and best of all, kissing.
I recognized that if I was going to be cursed with loving Honey for the rest of my life, I was the one who had been given a gift.
I never imagined that gift would hurt as much as it does now.
"I laughed at her, and she got mad, the first day that she planted it was just a twig."
It had been under five feet tall the day that she had planted it, resembling a leafless twig. I gave her credit for that task even though I am the one who dug the hole and hefted the eighty-pound root ball into said hole. I laughed at her when she delicately started shoveling a mix of dirt and compost from her bin on the side of the yard, because she was spilling more of the mixture than she was getting into the hole.
Honey had spent six months researching the perfect tree for the backyard of our new home. She had exacting criteria: the tree must be deciduous, it must be sturdy, it must provide lots of shade, and most important, it must have branches suitable for a child to climb on and possibly hold a rope swing. Once she had decided upon a Southern Live Oak, we had spent another two months visiting nurseries and tree farms all around South Texas before Honey found the one that she wanted.
She had been more focused on softly speaking words of encouragement to the tree to grow strong and healthy in its new home that it had taken her almost two hours to finish the task. Planting the tree in June, I tried to assure Honey that it was rooted and developed well enough to withstand the rare dusting of snow that we received that following winter.
"Then the first snow came and she ran out to brush the snow away so it wouldn't die."
Unassuaged by my confidence, Honey had rushed out to brush the snow off of the tree as soon as any had accumulated, and then wrapped the still spindly trunk in an Afghan that had been crocheted by her aunt. The snow on the branches was melting almost as soon as it fell, but Honey would take no chances with the tree.
I watched from the back door as Honey once more spoke words of encouragement to the tree as she continued to remove flakes of snow with each gentle caress of its bark.
"Came runnin' in all excited, slipped and almost hurt herself, and I laughed 'til I cried."
The lone spot where snow had accumulated was an area next to our backdoor where shade from the roof allowed it to get icy. Honey hit that spot as she hurried back into the warmth of our house and slipped. I don't know what bothered her more, being careless, or me laughing as I caught her fall.
Today, the tree stands almost twenty feet tall, with a canopy that was easily fifteen feet in diameter. There are several sturdy branches that a child could easily reach to climb on, but my attention today, on what should have been our fifth anniversary, was on the one branch about nine feet off the ground, and my promise to Honey on how to eventually use it.
"She was always young at heart, kinda dumb, and kinda smart, and I loved her so."
I had thoughts and feelings for Honey that had nothing to do with sex, but I suspected that I was the only boy in school who could make that claim. She was easily the most beautiful and sought-after girl at our school, but I never had a doubt about her total devotion to us and our future together.
I can't count the number of times during the average day when I would receive the same text message from Honey, "By the way, I am wearing the smile you gave me."
Honey made me laugh with silly things that she would say or do on purpose. Things another person might attribute to the "dumb blonde" stereotype that some women have to deal with in life. These people had never been humbled by Honey's mind-boggling intelligence. I know that the only reason that I was named as our class valedictorian was due to Honey tanking her own grade to ensure that mine was higher. There is no way that I would have bested her otherwise.
She did everything with all the enthusiasm and confidence of a four-year-old in a superhero t-shirt. From our very first meeting, I found love in Honey's laugh and a need for her in my soul. We had a shared vision for our future, and Honey wouldn't allow anyone to wash the rainbow out of our dreams. I could see her heart clearly, and in it I saw absolute reverence for us as a couple. Nothing could keep us from the life together that we both envisioned. We saw no end to what we could do together.
Every time I told Honey that I loved her, which I felt was never often enough, I didn't say it out of habit. I said it to remind myself that she was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
"And I surprised her with a puppy, kept me up all Christmas Eve."
Once Honey and I had both turned eighteen, all the restrictions we had endured were not merely history, her parents actually paid for an apartment for us to share while we attended the same university. Not to be outdone, since we were both attending the university on full-ride scholarships, my parents gave us a monthly allowance and covered all other expenses for us.
Honey exuded pureness, but she also held passion that defied physical constraints. Our lovemaking was adventurous and exciting, devoid of any preconceptions, guilt, or inhibitions. It was easy for us to find a balance between passion and comfort in everything that we explored together.
The apartment was actually a duplex that had a small fenced yard where Honey planted her first garden, and I got to experience her zest for harvesting things that she herself had cultivated; from flowers to eggplant. I carried a heavier course load, so there were periods of time when Honey would speak to her plants more than she spoke with me.
Her care for the gardens in our yard demonstrated for me her nurturing nature even more than the caring love that she had always shown for me. We both acknowledged that Honey would make a great mother, but that role for her would have to wait a few years. Focusing on earning our college degrees and getting careers established had to be our joint priority before trying for the children that we both wanted.
As the growing season was coming to an end, I recognized the void that this created for Honey and her need to have something to care for besides me. This prompted me to start looking into the possibility of getting her a pet. I conspired with her parents to have them hide a puppy as Honey's present until we celebrated the holiday at their house on Christmas Eve.
The seven-week-old male puppy that I selected from a local shelter was definitely a "mutt", but I knew that this was the exact dog that Honey would have selected had she been with me at the time. Based upon its paws and other physical characteristics, I was hopeful that the little boy would not grow much larger than twenty-five pounds, and thus would remain a suitable lap dog for us when fully grown.
Honey had wanted to take her time to consider the perfect name for the little guy, so I had to resort to calling him things like, "pup", "hey you", and "you little shit" after we brought him home on Christmas Eve and he decided that this was his home now and he was going to claim it by marking every wall corner and furniture leg.
When he had finished that task, he realized that he missed his litter mates and was inconsolable anywhere but on one of our laps and licking our faces. When Honey fell asleep around midnight, I took over and endured his demands for my fully conscious attention until he finally zonked out an hour or two before dawn.
Oakley awoke to his new name on Christmas morning. By the time that my parents had arrived for dinner around four in the afternoon, Honey had him signaling when he needed to go outside and peacefully sleeping in his crate when we needed to corral him. Within two weeks, Oakley would have been able to be cast in a movie; he was so well-behaved and obedient to any command that Honey gave him.
Three years later, on our wedding day, Oakley proudly walked up the aisle of the church carrying the small pouch that held our rings.
"And it would sure embarrass her when I came in from workin' late, 'cause I would know, that she'd been sittin' there and cryin' over some sad and silly late, late show."
Middle School. With students typically within the age range from ten to fourteen, in grades six through eight, Honey believed this was her calling as an educator. These were the ages when children transitioned from adolescents to teenagers, and frequently experienced some of the most transformative, challenging, and memorable moments in their lives.
These students thrived under Honey's understanding and nurturing guidance. She would speak in such a way that the kids loved to listen to her. She would also listen in such a way that the kids loved to speak to her. Even shy and introverted boys with unanswered questions about the changes in their bodies due to puberty found a trusted confidant and advisor in my wife.
My own career paid much better but was not as challenging, however, there were infrequent instances where I would be forced to work late for one reason or another. Honey never complained about being left to eat dinner by herself or, on a few really rare occasions, going to bed before I arrived home.
What I did have to reassure Honey about was her getting embarrassed by the obvious signs of tears on her face when I arrived home after working late. After she had grudgingly confessed that she had been watching some tear-jerker movie while waiting for me to get home, I would hold her and try to convince her that she would have cried just as much if I had been watching the movie with her.
Even if Honey had been dozing off during or after the movie, these conversations seemed to always give her a second wind. This would result in neither of us getting to sleep for several more hours, as whatever passion that the movie had stirred in her inspired hours of lovemaking for us.
"She wrecked the car, and she was sad, and so afraid that I'd be mad."
"It wasn't there when I parked," Honey whined. "I didn't see it when I pulled out of the space."
A stop by the local big-box DIY warehouse store on her way home from school had resulted in Honey running into a low-rise trailer that someone had parked in the space next to her while she had been buying flower seeds.
As she explained it, the truck hauling the trailer had pulled straight into the two spots to the right of where Honey had parked, leaving the trailer in the space directly next to her but below her line of sight. Pulling out, she had turned sharper than normal to avoid a rogue shopping cart, believing that she had the clearance afforded by an empty space on that side.
The screeching sound of tearing metal was the first indication for Honey that she had hit something, but by that time, there was a three-foot groove created into the normally smooth side panel on the passenger side of her car.
"There was no visible damage to the trailer," Honey insisted. "But I did leave a note on the truck for the owner explaining what happened and how to get in contact with us."
Since the day that we had met, I had measured myself with Honey's ruler. She had always looked at me as if there was something worth looking at, and let me see the world from a new perspective. I had never been angry with Honey and doubted that I ever could. Try as I did, I also learned that I couldn't even pretend to be mad at her without her seeing right through me.
When I told her, "Accidents happen," Honey jumped up from her chair and threw her arms around my neck.
Honey placed her cheek against mine as she said, "I recognized from the very beginning of us that your type of love is beautiful, rare, and precious. The blessing of having it bestowed upon me will never be taken for granted. I will strive to always be the girl that your type of love deserves."
Picking her up and heading for our bedroom, I replied, "You have always been far more than I deserve. You made me fall in love with being alive."
"I came home unexpectedly, and caught her cryin' needlessly in the middle of the day."
It was our four-year anniversary, a Friday, and I had taken a half day at work so that I could get home early and begin the three-day weekend that I had planned for us. I knew that Honey should be home from school by three o'clock, so we would be able to get a start on the three-hour drive and arrive at our destination in plenty of time for a romantic dinner.
Like birds know when a storm is coming, I knew that my life's horizon was darkening before I saw it. Honey's car already being in the garage just after lunchtime wouldn't have concerned me. For it to be there with her not having communicated with me was concerning.
I found her on the couch in the living room, huddled under her favorite throw blanket, and sobbing softly.
Taking the seat beside her, I placed my arm around her and asked, "Baby, what's wrong? Why are you home so early?"
There were a few more sobs as Honey leaned into me, smearing her mascara-streaked tears on my shirt. I let her take whatever time she needed to settle herself enough to answer. While waiting, I racked my memory for what might have been on Honey's agenda for the day that could have gone so wrong as to have her home this early and crying so profusely. I could think of nothing.
Honey finally calmed long enough to mutter, "Dr. Harlinger's office called. They want me to come in this afternoon for an ultrasound."
Dr. Harlinger was Honey's gynecologist. She had made an appointment with his office and gone to see him last week over her concerns about not getting pregnant yet. I had been told that the pelvic exam showed no issues, but they were going to run some blood tests to check Honey's hormone levels and such.
I asked, "Did they say why they wanted to do an ultrasound and why it was so urgent?"
"Yes," Honey softly admitted, "and that's what has me scared."
I pulled her tighter against me before asking, "What did they say?"
Honey hesitated before replying, "The nurse who called said that my blood tests indicated an elevated protein often found in women with ovarian cancer. She said that it wasn't a very reliable indicator on its own, which is why they want to do an ultrasound as soon as possible. I know it screws up our plans to leave for the shore, but I was hoping that you would go with me to have the ultrasound today."
Nothing on this mortal Earth could have kept me from going to the appointment with Honey for the transvaginal ultrasound, or the expedited Laparoscopy the following Monday. While the images from both of these tests clearly showed the tumor that had spread to Honey's liver and other lymph nodes and organs, such as her lungs, they didn't tell us the type of cancer that was involved or help us decide on treatment options.
It turned out that there were none.
Honey was not yet twenty-six years old. She had always been in perfect health, had no history of any cancers in her family, and she didn't smoke or have any other factors that would indicate her being at risk of contracting small-cell ovarian cancer at such a young age.
In retrospect, there had been symptoms, such as the occasional bloating that Honey had dismissed as simply being caused by a dietary change or something. There had been no pain or discomfort otherwise to indicate the aggressive nature of the beast growing inside of her.
As the test results continued to come in, it became clear that the cancer had already spread to an unmanageable degree before it had been diagnosed. The old adage, "I wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then," rang true.
Even though the cancer was rapidly growing inside of her body all that time, Honey had exhibited no significant symptoms or effects on her daily life until it had been confirmed by the tests. It was as if the diagnosis flipped a switch in Honey as the impact of her disease suddenly roared to life inside of her.
The weight loss, fatigue, and nausea alone prevented Honey from continuing her teaching assignment, but when the pain kicked in, the medications to alleviate that frequently left Honey feeling faint and muddleheaded.
Seven months after the diagnosis, Honey entered hospice care in our home.
"And it was in the early spring, when flowers bloom, and robins sing, she went away."
Honey refused to sleep in the hospital bed provided by the hospice care organization. She insisted that it be placed in our living room where she could be close to me as I transitioned most of my daily work to a small area of our house so that I could spend as much time as possible providing for her needs while still having a source of income.
When I did have to go into the office, either Honey's mother or mine would make themselves available to sit with her. These times were hard on Honey due to both mothers becoming so emotional upon seeing her slowly withering away and their dreams for grandchildren disappearing before their eyes.
After my morning shower, I would gently lift my dying wife out of the bed that we still shared and carry her into the living room where she could see and hear everything that went on in our lives as if nothing had changed.
After getting settled onto the hospital bed each morning, Honey would gently kiss my lips and proclaim, "I will not allow today to be the last day that I see you."
Initially, Oakley would not allow the hospice care workers or anyone other than me to get near Honey in the hospital bed. Once I built Oakley some stairs which would allow him to climb onto the bed with Honey, he would lie on the bed beside her, protectively watching over her as she slept or when the nurses cleaned and cared for her every day.
When the days began to warm enough, I would put Honey into a wheelchair and roll her out to the backyard that she loved so much. I would sit with her and listen to her plans for which flowers she was going to plant when the time came or hear her wondering how much longer it was going to take for the tree branches to support her weight on the rope swing that she still had planned for it.
Pointing to her flower bed, Honey would make me aware of the occasional stray weed that had sprouted and ask me to go and pull it for her. I had always been her helper; providing manual labor to her gardening passion by digging holes for her, toting bags of potting soil, carrying potted plants, applying fertilizer, or any other mundane task that allowed me to share her joy.
There was so much that we had shared, and so much that we had dreamed of sharing that we each silently recognized and treasured. Honey refused to spend time reminiscing about what we had experienced together, wanting to live in the day and attempting to keep our dreams hopeful. She continued to make plans for us until her final day, and then after.
Two weeks before our fifth wedding anniversary, as I carried Honey to the hospital bed in the living room, she presented me with her gift for me, making me promise not to open it until the actual day of our anniversary. She then spoke, barely above a whisper, "I love you so much."
Honey had experienced a restless night's sleep and I could feel her exhaustion almost as much as my own. I had her gift ready, but I could not bring myself to give it to her yet, still clinging to the belief that we would share the day together.
"Sweety, you need to walk Oakley for one more day," Honey softly reminded me before I could get settled at the table I was using as my work area.
At Honey's direction, I had applied a weed and feed to the grass in the backyard two days prior. While it probably wouldn't have harmed Oakley to go onto the treated grass to do his business, Honey didn't want to take any chances, and also didn't want him to track any of it into the house on his paws. Consequently, I had been walking Oakley on his leash in front of our house.
Checking the time, I saw that the hospice nurse should be arriving within the next few minutes, so I gave Honey a gentle kiss on her lips before professing my love for her and heading out the front door with Oakley. Before I had reached the sidewalk in front of our house, my chest deflated.
She hadn't said the words!
Honey had said that she loved me, but she hadn't said the words, "I will not allow today to be the last day that I see you."
Dropping Oakley's leash, I rushed back into the house.
I was too late and I could feel it immediately. The sensation of loss was indescribable. My body fell across Honey's still warm form as I tried in vain to feel one last heartbeat from her; to feel one last breath.
The words of the hospice nurse were unintelligible as I sensed Oakley running up his stairs and immediately began whining and licking at Honey's inanimate and unresponsive face.
"Now all I have is memories of Honey, and I wake up nights and call her name."
My eyes may look defeated, but my soul refuses to give up.
I've been like half a man for the past year. I haven't tried to move on from Honey, to find closure that will never exist. How can I amputate my soul?
Every day I struggle with whether it is easier to avoid the memories rather than deal with the pain that they cause. But, when I do that, I miss the joy that the same memories could possibly bring me. The joy that makes me miss her that much more.
Honey's physical presence remains in all of her clothes, her pictures, and her possessions. The smell of her perfume is an ever-present potpourri in the house, and will remain so as long as it is still available for me to purchase.
I think that Oakley senses her presence almost as much as I do, especially when he is in the backyard. He never digs in the dormant soil of Honey's bare flower bed, but he spends a great deal of time standing in it, sniffing as if searching for traces of her. He will place his front paws onto the base of the oak tree, looking up into it and whining, as if there was a squirrel or something else there that he can sense but not reach.
Oakley still shares our bed each night, resting his head on Honey's pillow. I will often wake up, calling her name, and find Oakley standing at the foot of the bed staring into the darkness at some unseen presence that I believe he senses but can't identify. I sense it too.
I went through three housekeepers before I found one who respected my demand that nothing in the house get rearranged. I didn't care if they felt that the placement of soaps and other items above the washing machine didn't make sense. Items in our house were placed the way that Honey had wanted them, and that is how they would stay. Honey would always remain the woman of our house.
"Now my life's an empty stage where Honey lived, and Honey played, and love grew up."
I know that it was Honey's unspoken mission in life to always leave people better than she found them. She certainly had with me.
Since we had first met, Honey had been the caring, nurturing, compassionate part of us as a couple. I only had to be those things with her, and support her in being them to anyone else for the both of us. She understood this and embraced her role in our shared life. Honey wasn't content to let that part of us die with her.
None of our friends or relatives would miss receiving a birthday or Christmas card because Honey had meticulously populated a calendar for me with all the relevant details for every person. I would get the credit for Honey's considerate forethought and preparation.
I was left with everything I would likely ever need to know about Oakley and every other responsibility that Honey had always assumed on her own. She had left nothing to chance, and I knew that it wasn't due to a lack of trust in me. It was my sweet Honey continuing to look after me, in death as she had in life.
I had made so many promises to Honey in the months preceding her death. She had known better than to make me promise to find someone else or to love again. Instead, all of my promises to her were focused on us continuing to share life together, and I was committed to that.
Today, on the fifth anniversary of our wedding, I have two promises to Honey that I intend to keep, if that damn tree is ready.
Before finding that out, I walk over to the flower bed. I had spent yesterday afternoon with various gardening implements, turning the soil and pulling the few weeds that seemed to always find a way into the fertile soil.
The cultivating tool is still leaning against the fence, but I ignore it as I use my powered screwdriver to drive a pilot hole a few inches from the top of the fence behind the flower bed. I aligned this pilot hole with the predrilled hole on the item that will hang there: The rosewood cross, four feet long by three feet wide, with an image of Honey from our wedding day meticulously engraved in the center.
Adjusting the cross to ensure it is level, I then place a second screw into the pre-drilled hole on the bottom and on each cross arm. Setting my tools aside, I walk over to the picnic table and return to the flower bed with the urn holding Honey's ashes.
Honey recognized that my promising to spread her ashes in the flower bed that she loved would be all the motivation that I would ever need in order to keep it vibrant with flowers and cared for year-round. In the urn, her ashes had seemed so meager when compared to the woman that she had been in life that I am surprised that they completely cover the entire flower bed with a light coating of gray.
Setting the urn aside once more, I turn to my next task. Standing under the oak tree, I jump up and grab the large branch protruding from the tree, about nine feet off the ground. Locking my hands around it, about three feet from the trunk of the tree itself, I sense no sagging of the branch under my weight of one hundred eighty pounds. The tree is ready.
My anniversary present from Honey remains wrapped in the box that sits on the picnic table next to the now empty urn. There is no reason for me to rush its opening. Wood is the traditional fifth anniversary gift, which is what inspired me to have the rosewood cross made as my gift to Honey, and why I knew what was inside the still wrapped gift to me from her.
Using my ladder, I secure two strands of rope to the branch using bowline knots. Now it's time for what is in the box.
A gentle breeze is picking up, so I use my power screwdriver to weigh down the empty box and wrapping paper as I attach the wooden swing to the bottom ends of the ropes hanging from the branch. Tears cloud my vision as I try to simultaneously tie knots in the rope and read the engraved message on the swing seat, "I love you with neither my heart nor my mind. Just in case my heart stops or my mind forgets. I love you with my soul. The soul never stops, and the soul never forgets."
There is a lone cloud in the sky that seems destined to find our backyard. In the spring, a live oak tree blooms with yellowish-green flower clusters, called "catkins". I watch one of these tremble slightly as I take a seat on the swing and witness the first drops of rain.
The soft but steady rain soon has Honey's ashes melding into the recently cultivated dirt of the flower bed, until they are difficult to discern any longer.
Swinging slowly beneath the canopy of the tree, sheltered from most of the rain, I feel a sensation of pressure on the top of my thighs when I glance up at the cloud and say the words that are now my life, "Honey, I miss you."
~~~
The song, "Honey", was written by Bobby Russell and became a number one hit for Bobby Goldsboro, spending five weeks in that position in 1968. It sold more than a million copies in the first three weeks after its release. Billboard magazine ranked the record as the number three song for 1968. It was awarded Song of the Year in 1968 by the Country Music Association.