bumblebees

My dad called us bumblebees back then.

He would watch us in the backyard, in the living room, in the basement, and say we looked as if we were searching for the next bit of honey, flitting form one side of the yard room carpet to the other.

I always think of the same image - obscured by water, looking up from the bottom of a lit pool into the dark night, 7 or 8 people poised and peering in at the edge of the chlorine, no care in the world that would resemble real life. College in the distance, no one paid attention to the weight of a wedding ring on a finger or the ache in the lower back brought on by a long month and a short paycheck. Everyone we knew and loved were healthy, and both of our parents, in the throes of wedded bliss, would be waiting at home for us with a cold meatloaf and an anxious microwave oven. Graceful and slippery from football camp and track meets we waited, not conscious of a little extra fat here or a little less hair there, our gazes intent on the surface of the water, the only interruption a small slice of hair in front of our eyes guided by the water dripping down our foreheads.

We would scan the slick veneer of the water, looking, watching, holding our collective breath trying to see the small splinter of wood emerge from the depths and then burst forth in a frenzy, the sound of wet feet on pavement punctuated with water freed from the swimming pool and battle cries as everyone broke the surface at once - arms, legs, water, laughter and a toothpick, all hurling upwards in the same instant.

Some things are sweeter than honey.