A taste of honey

I remember my first taste of honey. I was in my grandmother’s kitchen. She used to bathe me there, in the kitchen sink. I was probably under the age of five. I can’t recall the actual moment, but I always remembered being in that kitchen and tasting honey. I fell in love with varieties of honey a few years ago. It made me think of her often. Honey and kitchen sink baths. Honey from a spoon, maybe. Maybe from my fingertip.

I didn’t really like my grandmother. She was my father’s mom. She was mean to me in ways that I vaguely remember, but I remember the feeling her impression left behind. As a small child, naturally there were things I was incapable of completing for myself. But she forced me to do them out of her unkindness. Simple things that a small child doesn’t have the mental capacities to figure out in kindergarten, or the physical might to accomplish. I remember crying before being sent to her house. I can’t remember all the reasons why.

She lived in that same house for over 40 years, and moved into a new home in the suburbs maybe 5 years ago.

During my 20’s, I at times attempted to rekindle my relationship with her and my father. Very awkward. But I usually was the one to initiate.

She died a few weeks ago. I don’t know how old she was. I wasn’t notified by my father’s family of her passing. I initially learned of her death about 3 days after she transitioned into the next phase of life.

I have never heard my relatives speak one positive word of her after her passing. Her whole life’s record, from the perspective of her own children, was one tarnished and rusted and splintered with control, inconsideration, and sheer narcissism.

(THis was a draft I never published from over a year ago, after my grandmother died. My father’s mom. I never finsihed it and I don’t know what my next thought was.)

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