A Spoonful of Honey

     "Don't forget. I'm just downstairs and I'll be back soon," I told her. 

     I walked down the stairs with dirty plates in my hands. I couldn't believe the mess this house was in. I don't think I have ever let it get this dirty. But it seemed like every time I tried to tidy something up, my life exploded into chaos again. I sighed as I dropped the dishes into the sink with a loud crash. And somewhere between turning on the tap, my mind slipped from stability and I felt a sudden wave of suffocation. 

     It was all too overwhelming. There was so much to do! The laundry had been waiting for days, the bills needed to be paid by Tuesday, all the scattered toys needed to be picked up off the family room floor, the carpet needed vacuuming, and this stupid faucet would not stop leaking.

     Drip. Drop. 

     I stared at the tap my hand was holding. There was a burst of rage burning somewhere inside my heart and it was now racing through my veins. I could feel my pulse as if it were the only sound in the room. My cheeks felt hot and numb at the same time. Why?! Why wouldn't this stupid faucet stop leaking? It was driving me insane. Why was everything around me so broken? It was as if the entire world was conspiring against my sanity. 

     Drip. Drop.

     For a moment, the sound that the droplets made as they exploded against the stainless steel sink seemed cheerful. But only for a second. And that second was enough to fuel my rage. WHY? I kept turning the tap even though it was as tight as it could be. But I kept turning it. I poured all my frustrations into the inadequacy of that small, silver tap. My hand turned pale from the exertion. 

     But nothing happened. It made no difference. After putting all my energy into turning off this dripping tap, the fact that the droplets still fell, struck me. I felt like they were mocking me. Mocking me and my failures, my attempts, my hard work. With the same speed as I had felt the anger, came the helplessness. My hands dropped to my sides and I stood there on the cold, vinyl tiled floor staring into nothing. My shoulders slacked and a different sensation started to creep up my toes. It climbed up my legs and down my arms; leaving goosebumps. It rose in my chest and rested in my throat. It was an ache. A terrible, heart-wrenching ache. The sort of ache you get when you know you should cry, but your whole body is too exhausted to follow through with it. 

     I lingered in this weird limbo for a while until it became harder and harder to breathe. And finally, hot tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over. My whole body trembled as my tears washed the pain from my heart. They streamed down my face like rivers flowing freely in the Spring after escaping barriers of ice. I cried and cried with the most silent tears I could manage. I stifled every gasp and turned on the water for good measure. With every tear, a brick was lifted off my crushed lungs. It felt like praying. It felt like I was confessing my sins.

     I cried until the ache disappeared. Then, I dipped my hands into the running water and splashed my face. You know that moment when you're underwater and you rise up and just break through the surface? It felt like that. 

     Turning off the water, I wiped my face on a paper-towel and discarded the evidence in the trash. The moment had never happened. My body moved mechanically as I washed the dirty dishes. I didn't even realize I was doing it until I was already done. Remembering why I had come downstairs in the first place, I moved to the last cupboard and took down the bottle of honey from the shelf. I pulled out a spoon from the drawer and made my way out of the kitchen. 

     I had to go back to normal, as if there had been no change in me from the moment I had left the room. I couldn't let her think there was anything wrong. Standing in front of the hallway mirror, I rearranged my face into a smile. My face gave nothing away. 

     I walked up the stairs and into her room. There was a sweater on the floor so I picked it up and placed it on the dresser. 

     "I told you I'd be back in a minute," I smiled. "And I brought you that honey you wanted."

     Our eyes met and instead of saying anything she just looked at me. Looked at me with her deep, soulful eyes. 

     "I'm going to tie up the curtains, okay?" I said, turning towards the windows. "It's so nice out today."

     She said nothing. 

     "Do you want me to take the honey out for you?" I asked her.

     Her eyes gave me that searching look once more. They tore through my shell and into my soul and I could see something change in her expression as she registered what she had examined. I started to feel uneasy. Maybe something wasn't right. She always did say a spoonful of honey is a cure for the blues. What was wrong? Why wasn't she saying anything? Oh God.

     I walked up to her as she lay in her bed and sat down beside her. And as she put her hand on top of mine, it felt like a soothing balm. The same hand that had held me all those years still comforted me with a touch. I looked at the soft wrinkles on her face, the darkening depths of her eyes, and the wisp of hair that she had tucked carefully behind her ear. I looked at her lips, the same lips that had yelled at me for not making my bed countless times and had read me bed time stories. The same lips that had smiled and felt so much laughter. I looked at her hollow cheeks that still had their faint glow of rosy pink. And as I looked at the woman that sat before me, a million versions of her flashed through my memories. I could feel the ache returning. 

     She looked at me with those tired, brown eyes and her forehead creased as she put strain on forming her words. I wanted to tell her to rest, to tell me later. But I didn't. Instead, I stayed still in the moment. 

     I watched her carefully find her voice and be slightly surprised by the sound of it, as if she had forgotten she had one. 

     "I don't want the honey," she said to me. "You do."

     How was it possible that without me saying a word, she knew about the ache in my heart? This woman who could never tell when I was lying about having done my homework or who believed that I actually liked spinach all these years, how could she know? I wanted to protest, but for some reason I didn't. It was one of those wordless understandings. And it was too precious to lose.

     So, in this heartbreaking treasure of a moment, I let the trembling hand of my sweet, beautiful mother feed me that spoonful of honey.

©AnumAziz

This story is dedicated to a strong, wonderful woman I have had the pleasure of knowing and her daughter - who loves her more than life itself. It is also dedicated to the survivors of lung cancer, the departed, and those whom they leave behind.  

Life is eternal, and love is immortal,

and death is only a horizon;

and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.

- Rossiter Worthington Raymond