Honeycombs Of The Present

Like bees flying in and out of a hive, memories come and go as I wait. Some are sweet as honey, others painful as stings.

Proboscises probe my mind, sucking at the nectar of my past to deposit drops of recollections here and there in the honeycombs of the present.

My college roommate Geri zooms into my mind. I feel the edges of my mouth curving into a smile as I remember the night she smeared on a green algae face mask, dressed in a toga and went ding-dong ditching all over the neighborhood by herself because the rest of us were studying. The time we took Sarah’s car keys and drove her powder blue VW Beetle around and around the block, blasting the horn and screaming her name every time we passed our dilapidated off-campus house. Sitting at the kitchen table doing the Sunday crossword puzzle together while we caught up on each other’s classes and crushes.

I laugh out loud when a passing bee brings me Geri crossing a packed bar to where I’m talking to Rob and Dean from my advertising class while Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” plays. She pushes the guys aside, strikes a pose and belts out the next lines of the song very loudly and painfully off-key. “We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year. Running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here.” She grabs Dean’s beer, slams it, bows, and does her best fish face as she melts back into the crowd.

The colony shifts, and I’m caught in one of the worst days of my life. “Your mother’s having an affair and she’s leaving me,” my father says to my brothers and me as we’re eating dinner. “Anna, who do you want to live with?” I’m the oldest and I’m stunned. I had no idea. I ask if I can have time to think about it and he says no. Choose now. Tears run down my mother’s face, but she doesn’t say a single word.

I fight to send the memory deep, deep down into the murky depths of the hive and pray it will be sealed with beeswax immediately, never to resurface. But can the day your family falls apart ever be forgotten?

The bees zip in and out, as scores of dark reminiscences compete for my attention.

There I am hitting my 4-year-old brother in the head with a golf club during my back swing, resulting in the lazy eye that didn’t get surgically repaired until he was in college. It was an accident, yet my guilt is never-ending.

I’m drunk at my stepbrother’s wedding. Walking around half the day with a bottle of whiskey. Embarrassing my mother in front of family and friends. Even worse, embarrassing her in front of my stepdad’s ex-wife’s family and friends. Later throwing up in my friend’s MGB convertible. The one she’d just managed to scrape up enough money to buy from her dad’s co-worker. Puke flying everywhere as she races down the highway desperately looking for somewhere to stop. Later still, stumbling into the house to pass out, leaving her to clean up the mess.

Sarah trying to kill herself. She couldn’t cope with the death of the boy in the car crash she caused during her senior year in high school. Calling her parents.

I struggle to clear my head. Wonder how much longer I’ll have to wait.

But the bees are persistent and the memories, like pollen, are plentiful.

Being greeted by my grandmother on a crisp, bright Christmas day. “You look nice today … not like you normally look,” she says as she gives me a cursory hug. “Your grandpa was so proud of you when you were thin,” she adds quietly so no one else will hear.

My niece dying of leukemia just one week after her first birthday. My dad grabbing me by the arms at her wake and telling me it’s my responsibility to pull the plug when his time comes.

A scout bee relents and drops off something good, something nice, something comforting to ease my mind as I continue to wait.

It’s the first time I ever saw my husband. He’s in the conference room at work, shaking hands with the director of HR as he finishes his interview. I do a double-take as I pass by, struck by how cute this guy is. He’s tall, blonde, and blue-eyed. Nice butt too. I hope they’ll hire him. They do. He’s still the best bonus I’ve ever gotten at work.

The scout bee must have done a waggle dance for the others because happy memories begin to flood the honeycombs.

Our first trip together. Exploring Washington, DC. Visiting the monuments, the Smithsonian, and Mount Vernon. We two Tolkien fans eating at a restaurant called Bilbo Baggins in Alexandria, VA.

Jumping on the trampoline at a resort up north. Lying on the dock late at night star gazing. Thinking I caught a fish and reeling in a rock; he took the picture to prove it.

Laughing with two of our older nieces on a rare day spent together shopping and eating Hibachi. Making Christmas flowerpot trains complete with “Naughty” and “Nice” cars with our younger nieces and nephew. Decorating cookies, singing carols, and watching movies.

Kayaking to the sea caves on Lake Superior. Picking apples and carving pumpkins. Fish boils and lighthouses. Brewery tours. Drifting for hours in canoes and kayaks while taking pictures of the loons, herons, turtles, and king fishers on the lake. Delight when a bald eagle or an osprey stops by on a fishing expedition. Scores of campfires.

Impulsively buying the used 1998 dark green, BMW Z3 convertible my husband calls his baby. Afternoons spent driving back roads with the top down. Stopping for burgers and ice cream. Holding hands as we visit state parks, waterfalls, and bird sanctuaries.

Making my great-grandmother’s orange cookies with my mom.

Reading a book on my screen porch while watching and listening to the birds in the backyard. Reveling in the visits from hummingbirds, orioles, and cardinals. Rejoicing when the monarch butterflies return each summer.

A cluster of bees brings my husband back to the forefront. We’re planting our garden. Trying to find the International Space Station as it crosses the night sky. Enjoying sunsets, lightning storms, and lunar eclipses. Cuddling for an afternoon nap; his arms wrapped around me.

The surgeon calls my name three times before he gets my attention. He explains the procedure as the anesthesiologist prepares to put me under.

A few agitated bees dump the painful memories and fly away. My health care provider’s late Friday night test result email that the MRI shows a meningioma in my brain. The unbearable weekend as fear and helplessness buzz louder and louder. The neurologist’s crass response on Monday that the meningioma isn’t relevant to my care; it may have been there my whole life. Relief followed by the search for another doctor. A year later the new neurologist tells me the meningioma has tripled in size and I must have brain surgery. Not so irrelevant after all.

The rest of the bees zig zag madly inside my head, stinging memories blocking out the surgeon’s words. Crying with my husband. The pain of creating a will, documenting the accounts he needs to know about, and planning my funeral. Making him promise to spread my ashes at our favorite waterfall and to find love again. Telling our families. Getting a mohawk for a brief period of levity before shaving my head completely. Spending as much time with those I love as I can. Pretending not to notice the relief that it’s not them hidden behind their sadness. Wondering how we, or just he, will ever be able to pay the medical bills. My fear of dying.

As the anesthesiologist asks me to count backwards from 100, I hope the surgery will be successful. That I’ll still be able to walk and talk. Wonder if I’ll have any memories left at all. The bees are nearly silent now. I beg them to show me my husband’s face just one more time.