Judith Serin: THE HOUSE WITH WALLS OF HONEY • Cleaver Magazine

Nonfiction by Judith Serin
THE HOUSE WITH WALLS OF HONEY

in memory of Herbert Yee and 39 years together

The house with walls of honey.

Bees swarmed into the house and we let them stay. Their buzzing lulled our sleep. Every day the house smelled sweeter. First the bedroom, amber dripping from the zigzag crack in the wall. We slept curled against each other as though each of us were a spoonful of honey. The kitchen filled with bursts of crystallized nectar. Our living room was liquid with sweetness; we watched TV with our legs intertwined. The bees came and went through a hole in the ceiling, bringing in more pollen to turn to gold. Then one day it was all too much. We walked away from the house savouring the sharp air. The leaves had fallen, the branches slicing the sky.

The house with walls of clouds.

We kept walking through them. The shock of cold air. We picked some flowers from the garden; they were bright in the vase on the mantle against white. The house made us sleepy. We’d lean against a pillowy wall, wake hours later, surprised by the stone patio beneath our heads. We’d stumble back through the walls momentarily blinded, waving our arms in the damp. The relief of bursting into a warm room, the furniture solid. We’d rub the backs of our heads, make a cup of strong tea. At night the house let in no light. It was easy to get to sleep, but we missed the moon, the stars.

The house with walls of stars.

Here it was hard to get to sleep. Our nights were full of adventure. We explored the constellations, rode on Taurus, sat in Cassiopeia’s throne. Orion was our guide; we followed him to the edge of the galaxy, looked out over an endless milky sea. In daytime it was difficult to do our chores. I dropped silverware, you accidentally kicked the cat, and she sulked until she forgave you, weaving around your legs. We were often late for work or forgot something important and rushed back to get it. Our keys vanished; we’d find them hanging with the teacups in the cabinet. You said there was a black hole in the house.

The house with walls of sky.

We felt as though we were flying. Always looking up, we bumped into the kitchen sink, the bed frame, the table, our bruises like dark clouds we tried to read: Look! A giraffe, an alligator, is that your mother’s face? We walked on tiptoes. It was hard to find the way out. The door was the same blue as the walls. We’d stay inside for days straining up, until we missed our garden, the corner mailbox, the cars parked on the sidewalk. So we’d drift through the walls, walk in the middle of the street swinging our clasped hands, singing.

The house with walls of rain.

I lay on the bed sobbing, knowing you’d hear. I didn’t want to forgive you. I wanted to forgive you. The rain trickled down, the windows fogged, but a blue sky showed through. A rainbow locked inside the walls. Thunder, then a hammering downpour. The cat came to investigate, smelled nothing, and left. Sometimes the rain was so gentle it became birdsong: a feeling of wings brushing against me. I decided to forgive you.

The house with walls of birdsong.

After a while we didn’t hear it. We went about our lives but felt lighter, floating a little above the floor. How easy it was to cook with song, make the bed dancing. The sun seemed more brilliant, the moon whiter, the stars more piercing. We still argued sometimes: slamming doors and sulks. But we were easily distracted. Is that a chickadee? The quick notes of juncos? A hummingbird clicking? Our cat was happy, chattering, whiskers held forward. We lay on the bed soothed by a flock of songs.

Judith Serin’s fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction have been published or are forthcoming in her collections Gravity (2022, Eyewear Publishing), Hiding in the World (Diane di Prima’s Eidolon Editions), and Family Stories (2024, Eyewear), and in numerous journals and anthologies. Serin taught writing and literature at California College of the Arts for many years.