do you remember the first time you were called annoying?
how your breath stopped short in your chest
the way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze
the way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue.
your eyes never left the floor that day.
you were 13.
you’re 20 now, and i still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,”
apologies littering every other sentence,
words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years.
i could listen to you forever, though i know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious.
all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard
for 3 minutes
for 10 minutes
for 2 hours
there will be people who cannot handle your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart;
mostly because they can’t handle their own.
but you will never be”
and have never been
This is the one time of year that I love wasps.
Not because the wasps themselves get any nicer. They’re horrid little creatures year round. No, it’s because I have a couple of big apple trees out back, and late August, early September is when the apples start ripening.
Now, if you don’t harvest your own fruit, there are two things you need to know about apples.
The first thing you need to know about apples is that, when apples get ripe, they tend to fall from the tree at the slightest breeze.
I often work late at the office; by the time I get home, there are piles of apples scattered everywhere - and sure enough, the wasps are out in force, gorging themselves on the fruit. When I go to clean up the windfallen apples, the wasps naturally do the “rawr, I’ma fuck you up!” routine for which wasps are known.
The second thing you need to know about apples is that they ferment very rapidly in the late August heat.
So: the wasps try to come at me, but they’re too drunk to fly. They get about an inch off the ground, then faceplant directly into the turf, flip over onto their backs, and lay there, legs twitching in the air as they try in vain to find something to sting.
Perhaps I’m a man of simple pleasures, but I bust up laughing every. single. time.