We chased lightnin’ bugs barefoot with jars in our hands. Not to keep them, just to hold the magic long enough to remember. That hour between dusk and dark still feels magical.

"I wake each day knowing he will never be mine, and yet every breath I take is shaped by the thought of him."

The note was passed hand to hand like fiction. No one guessed the truth. Except him. And he looked at me, like it was not a secret, but a vow.

When no one needs me, I remember there is still a woman here. One who hums, notices, creates. And in the silence, she has something to say.

A mossy little birdhouse hung on the porch for years, mostly for show. Then, one spring morning, a pair of bluebirds arrived. This Curio Cabinet post is a soft reflection on what happens when something unexpected decides to belong.

We picked over 32 quarts of black raspberries in one week, racing the rain from a hurricane on the way. It was hot, it was tedious, and my little brother mostly just snacked, but we got it done.

In the heat of a summer evening, Lady Bergamot asks her husband to dance. When he refuses, another man watches. What follows is not a love story, but the ache of almost.

No cake. No big party. Just French fries, rain, and joy in the shape of him. Five years ago, he changed everything.

Honeybees do not ask your permission. They arrive when the thyme is blooming, map the morning by sunlight, and carry sweetness not for themselves but for the hive. This Curio Cabinet essay is a quiet observation of their rhythm and the things we learn when we stand still beside them.

“Because the truth was, I had never been sure if he was ever mine to long for. Only that I had once stood close enough to the fire to feel its heat.”

I’ve always lived under a metal roof. Rainy days don’t rush me anymore. They bring me home to myself.

Bartholomew Badger likes knowing where things are, and how to get back to them. But one spring morning, the path doesn’t lead home, and he begins to learn the quiet joy of not knowing. A Widdershins Wood tale about direction, discovery, and adaptability.

I ran miles to make the team. Played through injury after injury. Barely came off the court. And I loved it — every serve, every win, every ache. Volleyball was mine.

Late July, 1912. In the tranquil solitude of the conservatory, Lady Bergamot and Yates Everett find themselves on the precipice of something unspoken. Yates admits a longing neither of them can act on, forcing Lady Bergamot to confront emotions she’s tried to suppress. The weight of his confession hangs in the air, leaving her with an ache that refuses to be ignored. Will they be able to keep their desires at bay, or is everything about to change?

I have learned not to measure my words by how many read them. Still, I write. Still, I remain.

Horace Groundhog has never been known for asking—or thanking. But when a young hare named Tansy brings him soup and never asks why, he begins to grow something he didn’t expect: the urge to give something back.

I was born on a market day. Grew up napping under the tables and counting back change before I lost my baby teeth. And now, some Saturdays, I return — to the same booth, the same rhythm, the same quiet pride that raised me.

At a summer gathering, Lady Bergamot hears a widow’s confession—and wonders how long a quiet affection can hide before someone sees its glow.

We do not speak in sentences. But oh, how we understand each other. This is the joy of raising my son, where words are not needed.

Thistle Hedgehog reminds the bees when it’s time to pollinate. She always has. But when she forgets, and nothing falls apart, she begins to learn that trust might be as important as planning. A soft Widdershins Wood tale about letting go—just enough.

Not every childhood starts before sunrise, behind a big tractor, or ends with watermelon cracked open in the field. But mine did. This is the beginning of The Rows Behind the House — a subseries of The Apricot Years, rooted in sweat, trust, and sweetness.