a notebook that i began one summer in ysleta, tejas, ept. it continues east, following the course of el río grande~bravo to El Valle and into the gulf of méxico...
When I was a kid, and I used to go to my grandmother's house every Sunday, there was this bee hive (I know this is a wasp's nest) that hung high on a tree. Up until then, my cousin and I had never seen one before. The size astounded us. Much larger than any football we'd ever seen. Like kids, well, boys, are prone to do, we began throwing rocks at it in hopes to experience our first taste of honey straight from the comb. Our parents talked about their childhood memories and we wanted to make some of our own. After a while, we forgot about it. We never threw rocks again. But the hive stayed attached to the tree. Years later, I had already gone through the "changes," we were cleaning out the yard when my uncle, climbed the tree to trim it. My cousin and I gathered beside the tree, remembering childhood fantasies. One hack and the hive broke, some of it dusting down upon us. No bees. No honey. They had moved and it went dry years ago. The disappointment was something we both lived with. Sometimes I wonder if he remembers the bees.
sounds like the beginnings of a story. i hope you write it.
perhaps after I finish my cannabis project--okay, that sounds like i'm using it. ahem, my cannabis article.
Post a Comment