My father told my mother once that he was the bumblebee and she was the pollen – his only purpose in this life was to find her.
That was 25 years ago.
One full life sentence later, and she found out the hard way that he couldn’t quite tell the difference between his tongue, and his stinger.
I am the exact same age, on the exact same day, today, as her
when she met the boy who would grow up to look like whiskey.
His skin like wood – an oak tree cut in half, revealing rings of too many lives lived.
A taste she could never quite find a way to describe
All she knew was that his words burned her throat each time he made her swallow them.
Today was the day my mother first believed in magic.
His eyes pulled rabbits out of hats and always knew what card she was holding.
Like a magician – always with something up his sleeve.
She wanted nothing more but to be his assistant,
Laying herself on the table, handing him the saw that he would use to cut her in half.
But like all little girls, she was both stunned and dazzled to find
that every magician’s final act
I am by hours the same age as my mother
when she met the man who everyone told her would ruin her.
To those that don’t know any better, they still think they are right.
But luckily I am one half of the man who held the secret behind each illusion
– I know best.
The sorcery was not in his mirages; it was in her ability to put two broken pieces of herself back together.
Finding her way through the smoke and mirrors of his lit cigarettes,
she was always the one who held his magic.
They say bees are the most selfless creatures,
but still I wonder then,
is it not cowardice that they die after they inflict pain,
refusing to see the hurt they caused with their poison?
I was 19 when a boy first brought me flowers.
My mother shook her head in apprehension.
She knew better than anyone what heartbreak could stem from nectar.
4 years later. She’s now taught me how to pin my hair in curlers, how to tell when an avocado is ripe, and to never ask an animal if he will please become a human.
She buys flowers for herself now.
I watch her lay them out on the kitchen counter, giving each stem room to breathe. Windows wide open, she takes knives and saws off their roots,
one by one,
to lives they no longer need to hold on to.
Her home is a greenhouse-
A place where both her and the petals are always free,
extending into light.
I am the same age as my mother was
When my father would meet the only living thing in his life that would only know death.
To anyone else their relation to one another would look like ruin,
But her and I will always rejoice with laughter.
Because they seem to have forgotten
That it is only the tragedy of this love story
That can cultivate Honey.