A Gift of Bees
We're going out to see Sargon's parents for Mother's Day. They are such nice, gentle people that I always enjoy going to see them, even as I always feel a bit out of place. My own family is . . . well . . . I'm not out of the ordinary, and I'll leave it at that.
I miss my mother more on Culturally Appointed Holidays, of course. I don't recall last year being this difficult. This time it's more straight-up sadness than any real grief, but odd things, the oddest things, set it off.
Now it occurs to me that I never did tell you guys about my mom's friend K. K was one of my mother's many artistically talented friends, and she came to see Mom a lot in those last months when Mom wasn't getting out much, often with her grandson W in tow. W cared about Mom very much and often selected little gifts for her and made her cards, following her decline with much distress. They were very kind, both of them, and I know Mom loved them both a lot -- she talked about W often.
I was able to meet him at the funeral, a round-faced, solemn child; he would have been utterly overlookable were it not for the tragic look in his eyes. He was crying freely as he approached the gauntlet of mourning family. I put myself down at his eye level and told him how much his friendship had meant to my mother. And I have him a very big hug, because his loss seemed, in that moment, even more real than my own. Good kid.
I ran into K a few months ago at my Dad's when she had come by to pick up some of my mom's pottery supplies. Come to find out she's also a beekeeper, and I was eager to pester her for details about this fascinating subject. She happily told me about how a wild bee queen had recently moved into one of her empty hives and started a new colony.
W was extremely excited by this, she said, and begged to be allowed to care for the wild bee hive himself. K agreed on the condition that he tend to them every single day, himself, which he apparently has done with loyalty befitting a much older child.
He got to name the queen, too, and, as K said, "Of course he named her Caroline."
And of course I cried.
We get poetic gifts like this occasionally in life - and in death, too, though we may not know it. Mom's not here to appreciate the honor, but I appreciate it, and now I think of her whenever I see bees.
She was a singular woman, and I can think of few tributes more appropriate to her personality than a hive of venomous, stinging insects that nevertheless do the good work of pollinating flowers and making honey.
It helps the pain, you see, to know that Mom's friends remember her well, even the very young ones. It helps to know that, for all that my experience of her was often painful, she had a good side, and others remember her more for the sweetness than the sting.
Mother was what she was. A queen bee is a fine namesake.
I miss my mother more on Culturally Appointed Holidays, of course. I don't recall last year being this difficult. This time it's more straight-up sadness than any real grief, but odd things, the oddest things, set it off.
Now it occurs to me that I never did tell you guys about my mom's friend K. K was one of my mother's many artistically talented friends, and she came to see Mom a lot in those last months when Mom wasn't getting out much, often with her grandson W in tow. W cared about Mom very much and often selected little gifts for her and made her cards, following her decline with much distress. They were very kind, both of them, and I know Mom loved them both a lot -- she talked about W often.
I was able to meet him at the funeral, a round-faced, solemn child; he would have been utterly overlookable were it not for the tragic look in his eyes. He was crying freely as he approached the gauntlet of mourning family. I put myself down at his eye level and told him how much his friendship had meant to my mother. And I have him a very big hug, because his loss seemed, in that moment, even more real than my own. Good kid.
I ran into K a few months ago at my Dad's when she had come by to pick up some of my mom's pottery supplies. Come to find out she's also a beekeeper, and I was eager to pester her for details about this fascinating subject. She happily told me about how a wild bee queen had recently moved into one of her empty hives and started a new colony.
W was extremely excited by this, she said, and begged to be allowed to care for the wild bee hive himself. K agreed on the condition that he tend to them every single day, himself, which he apparently has done with loyalty befitting a much older child.
He got to name the queen, too, and, as K said, "Of course he named her Caroline."
And of course I cried.
We get poetic gifts like this occasionally in life - and in death, too, though we may not know it. Mom's not here to appreciate the honor, but I appreciate it, and now I think of her whenever I see bees.
She was a singular woman, and I can think of few tributes more appropriate to her personality than a hive of venomous, stinging insects that nevertheless do the good work of pollinating flowers and making honey.
It helps the pain, you see, to know that Mom's friends remember her well, even the very young ones. It helps to know that, for all that my experience of her was often painful, she had a good side, and others remember her more for the sweetness than the sting.
Mother was what she was. A queen bee is a fine namesake.