A tired and weary day hangs up its blazing coat on the grove of stoic oaks standing tall in the yard. Hot, dusty air settles over the ancient wooden porch where a child and grandmother sit, sipping tea and watching the sun slowly slip toward the horizon. Swinging her feet, the little girl watches her grandmother carefully pour another cup of tea into clinking china teacups, fascinated by the deliberate motion of her fragile, well-worn hands. The southern summer sun makes its presence known even as it takes its final bows, lingering in the wash of heat that still hangs in the motionless evening air. The girl’s grandmother adds a spoonful of golden honey to each tea cup, stirring gently as the thick liquid drips off the spoon. It drips slowly, languidly, like liquid sunshine, sweet and warm.