A woman named Honey
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Sean of the South
Sean Dietrich
“I’m dying,” the older woman says.
Her name is Honey. She is in the meet-and-greet line after one of my shows. She holds one of my books. White hair. Tiny frame. Maybe five-foot.
The theater ushers move her to the head of the line because she is using her roller walker.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says through wheezing breaths.
“Your name is Honey?” I say.
“Yes.”
“Why do they call you that?”
She is too winded to answer my question. And she has a lot to get out, so she cuts right to the car chase. “Before I die I have always wanted to meet you. My son brought me here tonight.”
Her son stands by. He is crying, too. Honey’s son’s wife is also crying. People nearby are crying. So I follow suit. If you can’t beat them, join them.
I lower myself to Honey’s eye level. “You wanted to meet ME? Are you sure you don’t have me confused with someone else?”
“I’m sure.”
“Don’t you think it’s time to raise your standards?”
“No.”
Then we hug. Her body is so small and frail. During our embrace I can feel her ribs in my arms. I’m thinking I might break her if I squeeze too hard.
Then again, what good is a hug if the other party doesn’t squeeze? You have to squeeze during a proper hug, otherwise people will mistake you for a communist who doesn’t love the Lord.
So I apply gentle, almost imperceptible, pressure to our embrace. Neither of us lets go for a little while. Two of us holding each other for a long time. Eyes closed.
Honey says into my ear, “I love you. I’ve never met you, but I love you.”
Still hugging.
“Love you, too,” I whisper. “What’s killing you?”
“Cancer.”
There are rules to hugs. If you’re going to hug for more than five seconds, if you’re going to KEEP the hug going, it’s required to start rocking back and forth. Otherwise, as I say, communist.
So we just sway for a few moments. Honey and I. Two bodies. Two humans. One love. When we release, I open my eyes and the real world is still there. People are looking at us.
I wipe my eyes. The old woman kisses my cheek. She touches my face. Her eyes are bright. “Be a light,” she says. “Be such a bright light.”
And now I know now why they call her Honey.
