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Lions Roar : November 2011
SHAMBHALA SUN NOVEMBER 2011 73 in his hand. Hot chocolate. The mug reads I Love You. I’m on the bottom step of the back porch with my coffee. There is no message on my mug. “Just watching the bees,” I say. Spencer pads across the porch and down the steps. He sits on the bottom one and sips at his cocoa. Over the rim, he eyes the hole in the ground. Several bees lift off and fly away. “They are still here,” he points out. “Indeed,” I say. A gray squirrel jumps from the roof of the garage and into the red oak tree. Spen- cer points. “A squirrel is just a rat with a good PR campaign,” he says, a joke he’s heard from his dad and which is actually pretty funny. “A squirrel is just a rat with a better outfit,” I counter and Spencer sputters chocolate in a dramatic spray. “Oh, that’s good,” he says using the back of his hand to wipe his mouth. The squirrel disappears on the other side of the fence and a few bees land on the ground and drop out of sight. I still have no idea how many bees live there, how deep their nest goes, or what they are creating in their dark world, but I like to imagine them down there—humming around, following their ancient code. “Have you decided what to do about them?” Spencer asks. He leans into my side and I put my arm around his lean little boy body. He smells like chocolate and shampoo. “Obviously not,” I say. “They are still with us.” “Well, that’s a decision,” Spencer points out. “You’re letting them stay.” I look down at my son—sweet face, dark eyes, shining hair that is thick and shaped in that popular bowl cut style. “I guess you’re right,” I say. “It’s the decision to do nothing.” He leans against my shoulder again. “That’s probably fine,” he says. “They aren’t bothering us.” I move my hand over the back of his head, finding that place where my palm fits so well. He moves his head a little in my hand, as if to nestle in. ♦