honey

I pull down stars late into the evening. I dismantle a galaxy; it has long since lost its shine. Some tender Mom or Dad had meticulously placed each celestial being on the ceiling once upon a time, to help their baby sleep. “The night is not so dark, little one. There is is always a star to wish upon.” It takes me quite a while to pry the loving gesture out of the stucco’ed sky. I demolish planets and comets and feel like a malevolent god.

Out the open window down the street under the moon and mewing through the night is my neighbour calling timorously, “Luna Luna Luuuuuuna…” This has been going on for at least half an hour. I crumple a moon in my hand, “Is she calling for you?” I chuckle. I know who Luna is and I know where Luna is. That young brat of a black cat is slinking around the bushes with the low income housing Tom of the same coat, scoping out rats. I saw them earlier when my old dog and I took the last walk of the evening. They eyed us suspiciously then scampered off into the complex courtyard. Oh Luna isn’t lost, she is found. Her little pink collar is tinging tonight. She sniffs the fur of her feline cohort. His neck is bare and he smells of petuli and dope.

I am painting over wasabi with honey if you ask Benjamin Moore. My daughter and I chose wasabi when we first moved in: an effort to find some FUN FUN FUN! in a year full of moving, divorce and death. I painted everything green in those days: NEW NEW NEW! But now several years have passed and green has done its job and can retire, handing the walls over to calm soothing gentle honey. AHHH. That’s all I want these days. AHHH. No longer in survival mode. AHHH. The galaxy, though dim, was a comfort to my daughter but the ceiling is looking grey and it’s time for white and tidy brightness. She’s older now. She is sleeping through the night without being afraid. She is big enough to open the window and look out into the real big sky herself.

I sort through her closet. I’ll keep the dinosaur model but she’s outgrown the bath toys. A little sad setting them aside for recycling. I fetch the rubber ducky with the tiara out of the bin. That one cannot go. Oh. The dresses too short to wear now. I wonder if she’d want them as tunics with tights. Ah. The hello Kitty dress…probably no. It’s all dance wear and sports bras and skinny jeans. It’s all Heartland, Sam and Cat and Glee.

I decide to take a break and head into the kitchen for a glass of water and a peek at old timey Facebook. My friend writes, “The thing that kills me? My daughter would have loved to have been at that Ariana Grande concert.” Hm. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Why would that kill him? Ariana Grande. I convinced my daughter Bang Bang was about bumper cars. I think she has probably figured it out by now, being eleven. Yeah, she would have loved to have been at that concert too. As I scroll down, I start to piece together what he’s talking about. Horror. Horror. What horrifies me the most is: the suicide bomber targeted young girls.

I start to surf the internet for details: the dead, the injured, ISIS taking responsibility but he may have acted alone, the identity of the suicide bomber, the members of his mosque completely dumbfounded that such a quiet boy from a respectable family could do such a thing, the devastated parents, the naming one by one of the little girls and mothers and teens and boys and men who were killed…the first being a girl all of eight. Saffi. Oh Saffi. Oh all of you out in the night to catch a shooting star.

“Luna, Luna, Luna…!” My neighbour’s voice is becoming more frantic. There are racoons and coyotes about.

I read the expected response from hackneyed Hercules. “This evil ideology must be obliterated. Completely obliterated.” “Evil losers.”

Even my eleven year old daughter, having read Percy Jackson, will tell you that if you cut off the head of Hydra it will grow back two more. The only way to stop it is to cauterize the wound.

The question is: how to. I ponder this with a bowed head, my heart full of sorrow for the loved ones of the lost.

“Luna, Lun- oh there you are! Thank God!” my neighbour says. “I will never let you out again.”

Well, that’s no life for a cat.

I take a deep sigh and unwrap my roller, dip it in honey and make a little peace.