Whit Honea's Blog

The thing about sandwiches, they don’t last forever. Even a generation of them is finite, no matter how much wonder the bread may hold. One minute you’re being pulled in two directions, the condiments of college vs. the lettuce of lost steps, thinking, oh, this is what they’re talking about, the sandwich generation is my new normal. Then you’re suddenly open-faced, a spread of sour doe-eyed tears alone on avocado toast. The rye is in the whiskey, meat is a metaphor, and the world is throwing tom...

My dad, Marana Mayor Ed Honea, passed on November 22, 2024. His service was held on December 21, 2024—a day on which he was honored by Governor Hobbs ordering all flags flown at half-staff—and I was one of the speakers. It was a marvelous event, and our family is forever grateful to the town of Marana for all that they did. After the ceremony, I was asked to make my words available online, which is why I’m here on this website again, some 5+ years after I rode into the proverbial digital sun...

There is a gift under the tree that will not be opened. It was there last Christmas and the year before, wrapped in pretty Pixar paper and red ribbon that is sure to fade, as all things do. It will be there next year, too, and for as many Christmases as we have trees to post above it.

Perhaps someday this gift will move away from home, along with my boys, a token of tradition under their own trees. Or there may come a time that it never makes it from the garage at all, left in a box full of m...

It had been twilight for days, the slow dance of sepia afternoons spinning with moonlit nights and dipping into misty, gray mornings. The only hints of summer in the sweat upon my brow and a glass kept full of gin and lime pulp. I heeded the latter with lazy awareness and left the former to the careless drip of its own device.

There was a bird in the garden, reckless in its focus, kicking with both feet like a jackhammer upon drought-dried earth, turning turf for the treats that it hid and devou...

Love died just before 7:45 on a Tuesday morning, at the exact same time the clock stopped ticking.

“I was crying in class,” said the youngest, an afternoon later. “I was crying and my teacher asked me why, so I told her. She said she was sorry.”

The oldest stayed in bed all day, weighed down beneath the steady stream of his own flowing tears, ignoring texts and whatever was on the TV.

Love, after all, had been his dog.

It had been his fourth birthday, and the two of u...

The day Valentine died was hard, the day before was almost manageable, but the day before that was awful.

Valentine died on a Monday, but it was on Saturday when we decided that Monday would be her last day. We made the appointment, and I cried. I laid on the bed with her, and I cried. We told the boys about her appointment, and I cried. I looked at pictures of her, and I cried. I went to work, and I tried not to cry.

Valentine was 15 and a 1/2, and I had known her all but 8 weeks ...

He is on the couch now, half a room away and then some, lost in pixels and buttons, a puppeteer of animated action, a digital deity. His little brother is a leg’s length from him, offering color commentary in true sidekick form, their feet twisted together beneath a forgotten truce and a couple of Cheetos.

The morning will bring a birthday. His first year as a teenager will officially be complete, a trial run filled with free samples of angst and two for one eye rolls. He will now be ...

“We’ll play handball at the park.”

“It is supposed to rain.”

“Then we’ll get wet.”

And so, like 10 before it, Zane’s only want for his 11th birthday was a sleepover playdate with schoolmates.

“We can have pizza this year,” he said. “It will be easier than tacos, but two kids are allergic to dairy, so we should get vegan cheese. And a vegan cake. And vegan ice cream.”

“But it’s supposed to rain,” I said, imagining a dozen tween boys, soaked and trapped indoors for all of an...

The street was mostly dirt with random spots of shade. It was straight as a ruler and countless inches longer. I walked it daily, my pet leashed to my side, tethered by responsibility and one-sided conversation. Then the road opened like a sprint, took a quick, deep breath, and headed for home. We chased it there as fast as our feet could take us.

There were late afternoons when I was charged with cleaning the pen, a 20-minute job that took a few hours straight as the boy flies; feedi...

Zane is turning 10 in a sleeping bag, whispering loudly and laughing with classmates. He wanted a birthday party, something we have unintentionally avoided over the years, choosing instead to time family trips and fun events to his mark upon the calendar, but 10 is a big deal and big deals are special. Big deals get a party.

“I want a party with some classmates,” he said.

We asked him what he wanted to do and where he wanted to go, listing all of the options he had been quick to ap...