by Candycane aka Candycane
I pulled this from inside an old book, a bee drawn in a hand I barely recognized.
Sharp. Focused. The wings constructed like architecture, the stripes purposeful, the entirety charged with intensity. Not a doodle; a master drawing.
My grandfather drew this.
I never knew he drew like that. He never mentioned it; he never put a drawing on the wall, he never held a pencil in his hand in my presence.
I wonder what he left behind in this season of his life. Who was he and what was he seeking, I wonder as I hold his bee, when he sat still for this. What was he before he became my grandfather?
The bee is perfect. It is meticulous. It is rendered with a tenderness that only comes with time. There are words on the drawing as well, nested along the folds of wings. Hesitant and soft words. Words that hover in spaces only visible when they’re meant to be unseen.
I hold his bee in my hand and I know there was another life here before me.
Original artwork. All rights reserved.
About the Author
Candycane, known only by a nickname, moves through life like a stranger in a strange world.