(In memory of Julia Ellen Cook)

Her voice still ricochets around in my head
when I’m chewing on a problem or in grief—

Honey… in Julie’s nasally twang—though I have
no idea where she picked that up, not having

grown up in a place where folks twanged
their vowels. I met her when I rented her

studio next to the garage on Serenity Hills
Drive. Out my window I could hear the

neighbors’ two horses and a goat munching
sweet grass in season and where I learned

that a cut-up apple or chunks of carrot
could make you a friend in short order.

Julie’s Honey… came out as kindness, not
condescension, always accompanied by

a heartful smile of affection. In my twenties
then, I wondered how old you had to be

to carry off such an endearment without
sounding patronizing or, well, old. And I’d

never have her twang. Years later when I
found myself standing in front of roomsful

of college students, some of whom appeared
at my office door in tears, I heard myself

Honey… a young woman who reached for my
hand and squeezed hard. I squeezed back.

I found that if I delivered the sentiment
(or maybe an occasional Sweetie…)

with the right smile and honest compassion,
it could convey a gentleness and the kind

of sympathy that feels like a just-right hug.
Now that I live in the land of older ladies,

I hear myself Honey… people—hoping
they feel the verbal embrace, a kind of

holding that says I’m sorry, I’m with you,
How can I help? Which we all need more of,

that sweetness, that tenderness, that mercy.