POURING SOME HONEY

Dear Spike:

I hear you were very brave — and I couldn't be prouder. But I am very sorry you had to meet the business end of a honey bee earlier this week.

You were on a walk with your mother clear on the other side of the park when it happened. You were batting away some nasty summer gnats when a bee landed on your hand. When you tried to swat it away, too, it sank its stinger into you.

You were still sobbing, a bit, when you finally made it home, but you held up your hand rather proudly to show off a tiny red spot on your finger.

You held out that same hand, yesterday, as I was pouring some honey into a coffee mug.

"Some honey, daddy?" you asked.

I obliged, dropping a dab on your finger.

"Mmmmmm," you said as you tasted the thick golden liquid. "Some more?"

For a moment, I felt like helping you make the connection between two moments — one sweet and one painful.

But then I thought better of it.

"Here you go," I said, squeezing another drop from the bottle. "Enjoy."

Love,
dad