On Sundays we take the last piece of honeycomb out of the wall safe and walk to the beach. As we stroll we recall what’s no longer here—a shadow that belonged to a tree we loved, that cafe with the good onion soup, dogs, libraries, and the lilacs that made me sneeze.
As we near the water, we put on our respirators. Our black shirts are striped with yellow tape. Pipe cleaners are antennae.
On a bluff we hold up the honeycomb and start to buzz. We do this until our throats hurt. Then we try to smell lemonade, ice cream, and root beer, and start again.