Honeycore

I awake each morning in the same beautiful A-Frame, the same light shining through light brown shades. The rays, as they pass through the air, cling to the dust like I clung to her as the winds and rains thrashed viciously at our door. I call them sunspecks, these specks of dirt glazed by sun. I hear her whistling, a soft tune, as the wind lightly trickles through trees. She could never keep herself from indulging in those wonders, sparking ever flowing emotions throughout the world. She works in the kitchen, in what she has always called an overall dress. She wears it over her plaid long sleeved shirt, and all is colored yellow and white. I once asked why she always wears yellow, her closet a mix of the same colors that build our house. She simply replied with the knowledge that yellow is the color of happiness The very color passing though the window each morning, the color of light. She says that without this color she does not know what could be. This beautiful morning she is in the kitchen, I can see her from the bed I lay in. Her brown sugar glazed hair is tied in a messy but atop her head, a cinnamon bun untwirling around the edges. The broken hairs at the top of her neck whisk around as she spins to the tune she hums, from the counter to the refrigerator and back again. I know this recipe, I have seen her make it countless times. She is making Honey and Sugar Waffles. I stop staring and throw on a large shirt, the same shade as the blinds, and walk to her. I greet her with a gentle yet sturdy hand on each of her shoulders, as I peer over them to see the breakfast she cooks. I look at the clock on the wall, it reads 7:53, a beautiful time to go out and harvest. I bring my right hand along her shoulders, soft and brisk, and down her left arm to her hand, taking it gently in my own. I lead her out the door, no reason for shoes. We walk through the garden, pursuing daffodils, dandelions, tulips beyond measure. The gardens are not neat, but a chaotic yet calm swarm of beauty. We walk towards the beehives, to harvest the honey to top the waffles. I had always strayed from bees, been scared by the hurt they can bring forth. She taught me that a bee will only sting if you threatenedd it's hive or itself. The bees we own are quite friendly, so much so that you can touch their fuzzy bodies, and watch as they are surrounded in confusion. Harvesting the honey is her job, I am still too afraid to do that. I watch as she does it, gently, as not to disturb the bees. When she has enough, a full canning jar, she takes my hand again and we walk back to the house, our home.