When the moon hits your knees
And you mispronounce trees
Sycamore

Sycamore Station on Dutch Oven Road — a place of gentle wonder, where a door opens into something more than retail. I wandered in one morning when the air still held dew, and found myself in a light-splashed space where food smells like home, curiosity lingers on every shelf, and time tilts just a fraction slower.

The blueberry grilled cheese was a whisper of pastel heaven: jam and goat cheese, basil’s quiet hum, jalapeño offering a gentle nudge. I sipped a cold brew, deep and rich, and let the warmth from the wood-floored room settle in my chest.

Around me—pottery that feels hand-warmed by the artist’s fingers, candles that glow like hidden geodes, bowls carved from wood that once lived in forest twilight. The air carried the memory of markets past, of vendors setting up under suns that only half-remembered themselves.

In the back, a community room awaited: its tables folding into stillness or gathering space for readers and painters and dreamers. Soon I discovered — it was all of us, drawn there to breathe.

This is more than a stop. It’s a threshold between trail and table, quiet and connection. I left with a sticker in my pocket, a card for a sign‑making class in my bag, and the feeling that someone had saved a corner of Roanoke for moments like this.

I’ll be back. Maybe next time I’ll bring a friend, or linger over books and floated root beer. Sycamore Station isn’t just a place to pause — it’s one to return to.