She found her father and he did not recognize her, she found closure.

She found her father and he did not recognize her, she found closure.

…by those sweet honey making bees.

and stung so many, many times

Compelled, she felt, to share her story. She was looking for that thing that needed to be found which she herself had not yet defined but certain, she was, it was black and white and every shade in between the lines that had separated decades of humanity one moment at a time.

She explored her own origin. She is born of an era that has long since passed. A culture that has assimilated and adopted the new culture. She wondered if she would recognize that place where she learned to eat chocolate upon a croissant covered in butter. She sensed that her grandmother was not very fond of her, otherwise, why would she design a diet that would surely deliver long term results. She moved to the kitchen to ponder the impact. She warmed a croissant and the fragrant aroma of crusty butter croissant drifted into the room, she slathered it in more warm butter and gently placed a thin slice of chocolate upon the bread. What harm could it have done, she wondered?

It was not always chocolate as a diet. It was that soup, the lentil soup that deserves a chapter all to itself. It was not a thing that brought joy to the chocolate eating child. That soup however will yield pages in the stories of a life and the lessons sometimes learned. The child that once had chocolate upon her person in so many places, her face, of course, her hands, and legs, and arms.

There were bees in the car that day. Perhaps the windows had been left open. She sat in the back seat. The Mercedes. The chocolate had melted in the sun. She promptly opened the package and devoured it but not before she covered herself and the entire back seat in chocolate. She was an unruly child. The bees between her finger tickled and then, it stung, the bee stung her, and it caused great pain. The stinger remaining today embedded in her pinky finger, the right hand, a lesson that will remain in a physical reminder for her lifetime, it seems, since it still is lodged deeply under her skin. The other bees, and there were more, caught her thighs beneath her seat, the seat that was now certainly covered in chocolate.

She was not moved away from chocolate rather now she enjoys it with honey too. The seats in the car were probably leather, who cares. It was just a car. She recalls from the perspective of an innocent child; it was just a car.

She remembers the tale more; she believes because of the endless times it was retold to her as a reminder of her unruly ways. She finished her treat and returned to her typing.

Evaluating notes. Looking at pictures. Consuming triggers of days long past. All to locate that which she is certain remains in the rubble of those stones that have been once the reality of structure. Structure is an element in her life that she feels defines her journey. The structure of a formal childhood education in the Kindergarten. She recalls it in her memories as a large place that was made of stone with a grand yard and an enormous gate. There was structure, a schedule and above all else disciplined learning. As much as she rejected it then, she fondly recalls this as her fondest childhood memory.

Perhaps, she pondered, it was because it serves as the first example of her ultimate freedom from that which pained her five-year-old heart. Freedom married to accountability of and for the self. She knew that it was not right, something, but what it was, she simply did not know. She suspects that the feelings remain. The answers she has never found, or had she? She knew, however, even at that tender age that this was her key to freedom, she complied. She followed the rules and she learned her lessons well. She was away from the place of darkness; her grandparents had grown grey. She was astutely aware of the progression of their physical ailments and onset of age. She desired independence even if she did not know how to define the terminology.

She slept in their bed. The grandparents kept the room cold. The cost might not have been bearable, perhaps, they were both retired. The room was very cold. She slept between her grandfather and her grandmother. She felt it was meant to keep her sequestered. She might have run away, perhaps. Perhaps, she wondered, they thought she would run away. She thought they had wanted her to run away. Why did they make it so difficult? She had an abundance of reasons for wanting to escape even at such a tender age. The silence alone was unbearable. Of course, this explains her fondness of the loudest trash metal she can wrap her ears around. Rock, punk, rap, heavy metal, the louder, the better, it quells the lasting silence.

She imagined her escape. She would board a ship and sail to America. She knew that is where her mother and father lived. She was desperate to meet them. She had been told so many stories. The stories were merely stories to rest the mind of an inquisitive child, fairy tales, nightmares, and the story of a prince and princess. None of the stories were true, they were pure fiction. She was excited to leave Germany, but she would miss her grandparents terribly, despite all the mean things grandma did.

She wondered if her grandmother had the grand plan and design from the beginning. A tear, of course she did. It was likely, she suspected, her way of making her, she, the child, desire to leave, and leave at will. It was a painful concept to consume but she felt she had found a truth. She wondered for a moment how these closets of memories could have ever gotten so cluttered. On second thought perhaps she had merely learned how to spin the narrative of reality to suit her needs. Honey is sweet.

Once, when she was working as a cat care giver, she served a customer who often shopped. Her client never opened her purchases. She shoved them into closets, drawers, and eventually the extra rooms of the house. She had bags and bags of brand-new purchases in packaging with receipts that she stuffed away. She wondered what pain, what discomfort, what tragic event she, the client, was really stuffing into the closets? She had a method, the client shopped, the client dropped, the client walked away from absolutely every purchase. She wondered if she, her client, had ever unpacked her collections, organized them and discarded or donated those as appropriate?

She found another nugget. It is so very powerful, she had thought, she had thought it would give her all the answers. Closure. Happiness. Laughter and joy. Those feelings she believed; she might finally feel. She found her father. It was many decades later and yes, she found him in America. Aged, and without any ability to communicate with her now. It was a bittersweet find like the chocolate upon the bread with honey. She has her closure but none of the imagined dreams of what it would be like to finally hold her daddy so many years later. She would never have that now, so she had to make do with the stinger that remains in her right hand in her pinky finger. It is real. It makes her feel. She felt betrayed, He was in America all along. She pondered, how could that even be true?

She wondered; and she identified that she was unpacking the invisible baggage that she carried with her for decades. She felt lighter each time she unpacked another mental package. She could own it, organize it or discard it. Whatever she decided, she has freedom, the freedom sought by a five-year-old child covered in chocolate and stung so many, many times by those sweet honey making bees.