Barn

 

February 15, 2021

 Greetings from the sweetness,

 My father would carry me across the hardpack yard toward the big red outbuilding with the gambrel roof, and I would point and call out, and he would laugh and swing me around.  It felt as if I were flying. 

 My brother Ethan would tell people: “We call him Barn because it was the first word he said, and the only world he said, until he was almost five.”  My parents named me Wilson; I don’t remember what they called me since both of them died of fever when I was young.  After that, Ethan took care of me, and to him I was always Barn.

 When I was old enough to help around the farm I would follow Ethan into the fields and help move hay bales and dig post holes.  When there wasn’t enough work for me, Ethan would let the neighbors hire me for extra money.  I would stand there, mute, while Ethan arranged things.  

 “This here’s Barn, he’s strong, but he’s harmless.  Just tell him what to do, and he’ll do it.”  I waited, looking at my boots, wishing I had a way of saying the words in my head.  I did the work and touched my cap as a thank you when I was paid, and went back to our farm.

 At night, when the last chores were done, Ethan would sometimes go into town, and I would sit in the front room and read.  I don’t know if anyone ever knew I could read, Ethan didn’t ask, I didn’t explain it.  I read everything that our parents had on the bookshelf, and everything else I could put my hands on.  When Ethan went to the next town over for seed or some other thing, I would go to the little library there and sit with the books.  It was there I found a book on bees.

 Ethan let me take care of the hives.  We kept bees out on the other side of the garden, where the wind was held back by a row of trees and low shrub.  After our other chores I could spend whatever time I wanted there.  It was a place without struggle, where my thoughts were clear.

 “He is a wonder, Barn is, with those bees.  He don’t even wear the net anymore, or even smoke ‘em to harvest the honey.” Ethan would say.  “They just let him be, don’t ever sting him even.”

 I worked among the bees, cleaning, dealing with mites and mold, scraping the combs, pulling the honey.  The hives were healthy, and I poured dozens of jars to sell at the fruit stand at the end of our lane.  The honey was good, sweet proof of the beauty of my time with the bees.  They became my friends, of sorts, and their place in the world was one of peace, of beauty.  And there was one other thing; a sense of passion I didn’t know before.

 I sat at the kitchen table intending to say this to Ethan: “There is a magic time in the morning when the sun is not yet the sun, but only a promise of fresh light.  There is mist in the low places and everything is glistening with dew.  The sky is a rare shade of blue, a reflection of the cornflowers in the grass.  The bees are quiet in their home, holding each other warm, surrounded by the cool morning.  And then when I sit outside there, they come out, one by one and greet me.  And I know, in Her time, She will join me there in the clover.”

 But the words I say are: “Go to bees now.”

“Go to bees, Barn.”  Ethan says. “But you get these dishes cleaned up first. Hear?”

 For the first year, I watched Her with the others, the drones She shared the air with.  They swept and darted, whirled into shapes blurred by motion, clouds of life.  I noticed Her because of the grace and power She held as She flew.  She was the queen, I knew Her role with the others, knew of the relationship and the duty.  I also knew She was made for more than either.

 In every moment there is something, a part of us waiting to be.  Even as we consider it, it is becoming part of us.  Wondering brings us wonder.

 The summer of the second year She flew to me and waited for the others to fall back.  She hovered around me, sometimes holding so close I could feel the wings press the air against my eyelashes.  She lighted on my hand and walked among the hair on my skin, I felt Her touch the beads of sweat, felt Her exploring me.  And then She lifted up into the air, hovered in front of me, and looked into my eyes.  I can still feel the touch of Her and sense Her making a space in me.

 It was nearly another year passed before She spoke to me. She said Her name, but it was not language, it was sensation, a whorl of experience and beauty and emotion.  It was the same way I felt words in my head, but this was more visceral, something I knew in my entire being.

 The wonder seeps into our language, our desire, what we dream of, hope for.  It simmers in the pulse of our bodies; it whirls the feathers in our core.  Each time I came to the hive and saw Her float out to meet me, I was held in an awe that defied definition. 

She spoke, asked gentle questions, somehow understood my answers.  She told stories of the seasons, of the way life mingled with Her, of how She saw each day through a sense I hadn’t known existed, an awareness that startled me.  And then one day I felt Her touch lightly on the cusp of my ear, felt Her wings rest, and I heard Her soft whisper.  “Wilson.” 

 Spring was long off.  The almanac told me that it would be late, the days would stay cool, and I knew the bees would be fussy, trapped inside in the brisk February mornings.  I sat outside the hive and busied myself with mending one of the wooden frames, and then I saw Her rise up out of Her home. 

 She made Her way on the air until She was near enough to speak, and we exchanged our morning pleasantries.  I felt easier inside, and at the same time my heart quickened.  She waited, and then said my name, and then came close enough so that I felt Her, and She kissed me.

There will never be a need for me to tell anyone what this was, and that’s just as well since there are no words that will serve.  In the fraction of a second that we became one being, there was a new creation, a new future, and with it a new kind of wonder.

 From somewhere else I watched Ethan find him lying in the grass.  His clothes were damp, his arms and legs cast open like he had no bones.  His face was relaxed, and there was the slightest hint of a smile, although his lip was swollen, a little distorted from the sting.  I saw Ethan slump with despair, but I also sensed his relief.  He placed his hand on his brother’s eyes, and closed them.

 I floated with Her in the air above.  We embraced the morning, held it in our wings, and caressed the light the sun shared.  We lifted higher, danced among the tiny buds in the branches, felt the world changing.  We exchanged the wonder in our souls, and we each became something new.

 And now we are a Wonder.  Something beautiful and unique, the Two of Us a marvel of love, a treasure among the Wonders.  We flew into the limitless next moment, which is where you will find us forever, and forever, and for all of whatever comes after.

 

Hope this finds you flying,

 

David

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith