Story of a beekeeper
Do not grieve for me, son. The earth has already taken my sorrow and buried it beneath the roots of old trees. They carry it now so that you don't have to. When the wind moves through their branches, that is not the wind. That is my loneliness learning how to speak. I forgave you long before I left. We are men, and men don't cry. A hundred forgotten calls, a thousand unfinished conversations, entire monsoons that passed, without your voice crossing my doorsteps — I forgave them all. Fathers are made of strange soil. We are built to survive droughts our children never notice. I remember the airport. The glass walls. The city lights waiting beyond them. You walked towards a future made of steel and neon, while I remained behind with the birds, the sea, and the slow language of sunsets. You waved. I waved. Neither of us knew that some goodbyes are the last. The sea remembers. Every evening it drags the sun beneath its waters the way memories dragg...