That night, the doctor dipped bandages in honey and wrapped your welted limbs, while your father read to you from Aesop’s Fables. You stood in the swarm and shouted, “I am the Lord God of all creation!” before your father ran in and cradled you to the house. I remember the day you went crazy with fever and took a hatchet to the hives in the apiary.
Remember what we used to know: the owl perched in the barn rafters with a kitten dangling from its beak, the summers so dry that the wheat withered underfoot as we walked through the field with ice-cream-coated hands.
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