“Who wants a go?” she asks.
Everyone looks reluctant but curious. As am I, but all those creepy crawly bees….
Aiden steps forward. “I’m not afraid,” he declares, then adds, “mostly,” which makes all the tour participants chuckle.
Una hands him the frame, guiding his hands to the wooden sides. “Keep it level. Breathe.”
He holds it out, arms stiff, face a mix of awe andmild terror. “They’re just…walking all over it. And each other. Andme.”
“You’re doing great,honey.” I lift my phone to snap a photo and then look at it critically. “You look like a man who has found the meaning of life.”
“I feel like a man who’s standing too close to a small, buzzing apocalypse.”
I click another picture. He looks both terrified and delighted, the veil giving him the appearance of a wayward explorer. I know I’ll keep this photo forever.
Thanks to Aiden stepping forward, two others and I have some photo sessions with the frame of bees, hoping that we’re not pissing them off by disturbing their day.
After the frame is returned, Una leads us to the honey house.
Here, the air is cool and rich with scent—warm beeswax, sweet pollen, faint traces of smoke from the hive smoker. Rows of gleaming jars line the wooden shelves, each labeled with flavors that read like poetry: Clover Cream, Wild Apple Blossom, Goldenrod Gold, Buckwheat Dark.
Una sets out samples with chunks of warm baguette. “Start with the mildest and work your way to the darkest. Just like wine.”
The first taste—Spring Clover—melts on my tongue like sunlight. Soft, floral, clean.
“Oh wow,” I whisper.
Aiden dips his spoon into Goldenrod. His eyes close. “This tastes like spice and…it’s still sweet. Apricots and toasted almonds.”
I feel light, unburdened for a moment.
“There’s a metaphor in here somewhere.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Life is sweeter than we expect.”
“Or…we should stop settling for store-bought honey,” I say, my eyes twinkling.
The moment stretches, delicate as spun sugar, and I know this is the kind of day you recollect when you’re eighty.
“Remember, Aiden, when we almost got stung by a honeybee?”
“Baby, I remember tasting honey almost as sweet as you.”
The image of Aiden and me, old and gray, sitting on some porch with unending viewsandhoney in front of us is intoxicating.
We buy a couple of jars of honey and a tray of bread and cheese, and head to the pergola outside. We wash down honey-infused goat cheese crostini with local cider. There’s a sweetness in the air, which isn’t surprising. It is, however, comforting.
“My mother came by this morning.”
I go still.
“She said she’s being arraigned. Asked me to ask you to drop charges.”
My stomach twists.
“I told her I wouldn’t, and that I want her to pay for physically assaulting you.”
I know that in the past months, he’s walked awayfrom his family, but he’s never spoken to his mother this way. He’s always respectful.
“I’m assuming she didn’t take it well.”
