The Music of Bees Eileen Garvin (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

big paw for a high five. Harry usually hated it when guys did that, but Yogi seemed sincere. He thought he might tell Yogi about the bee farm, but Yogi was talking about kiting again.

“Listen. Your next day off, come down here and I’ll give you a little intro lesson. I’ve got extra gear, and I can hook you up, show you the ropes. Seriously, it’s not that hard to learn. You don’t need to pay hundreds of clams to one of them,” he said, jerking his thumb at the cluster of kite school trailers.

“I mean, they’re okay for people with money. But we regular joes need to stick together.”

Harry nodded, uneasy. The last time someone had told him they needed to stick together, he wound up in jail.

Yogi set his beer on the grass. He pulled his hair into a ragged ponytail with a rubber band.

“I’ll tell you the secret, the thing the kite schools won’t tell you, if you want. You seem like the kind of dude that could get it.”

Harry nodded.

Yogi held his hands out in front of him, his palms up. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Okay. The secret is: You have to feel. The wind.”

He closed his eyes, leaned back, and rolled his big shoulders.

Harry started to laugh but realized he was serious. Yogi, his eyes still closed, sat with his palms up. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“You have to ask yourself, What is the wind doing and how can I capture it? How can I move within that? What is my place within this beautiful atmospheric moment? Just this one. Right here. Right now. You have to listen to the universe and hear what it is telling you.”

The big man inhaled through his nose and exhaled out his mouth.

Harry didn’t know what to say. Yogi opened his eyes and laughed, his voice returning to normal.

“It’s magical, man. Seriously. Super Zen. I try to live like that. Moment by moment.”

He punched Harry in the shoulder. “And you are going to fucking nail it! I can tell!”

He wiped a thick finger across his plate and licked it off. “Right. Gotta motor. I’m meeting some brothers for a downwinder from the Viento launch. But seriously, dude, your next day off—come find me. I’m here every day. Catch ya later, Harry.”

He held out his fist, which Harry bumped awkwardly. He watched Yogi stride away, waving and calling to people as he went.

I have a job, Harry thought. And maybe a friend. He smiled and lay back in the shade of the tree, his belly full. He would just close his eyes for a minute, he thought, and then he fell asleep.

When he woke up, the party was gone and the sun was flirting with the horizon. He remembered his uncle and his promise to call his mother. He jumped on his bike and rode across the bridge. By the time he got up the hill to the hospital, twilight had settled along the ridgeline and the river below was a ribbon of darkness. The hospital doors hissed open, and the sting of antiseptic hit his nostrils. Harry hurried down to Uncle H’s room and stopped in the doorway. The clicking and beeping machines were gone. So were the flowers his mother had sent, and so was his uncle. Harry’s scalp prickled like someone had poured cold water over his head. He walked quickly back to the front desk.

“Um, I’m looking for Harold Goodwin. He was in room nine?”

It was the nice nurse, the one who had snuck him dinner. She stood and came around the desk, her face grave and her arms folded.

“I’m so sorry. Your uncle passed away this afternoon. He went into a respiratory arrest, which is not uncommon after a stroke.”

She waited a beat, letting Harry take that in. She explained that swelling in Uncle H’s brain had caused him to stop breathing. She reminded him about the advanced directive and said his uncle had not been in any pain.

Harry’s head spun, and his hands felt clammy. His ears rang, and sweat sprang up on his forehead. The nurse was saying they had called his next of kin. So his mother would already know. The body had been transferred to the morgue. She took Harry by the elbow and guided him into a chair. The scratchy pink upholstery reminded Harry of the visiting room at jail. She sat down and pulled a pen and pad out of her shirt pocket.

“I’ll give you the number, and you can call them tomorrow to make arrangements,” she said, scribbling on the paper. “And I’ll put Dr. Chimosky’s cell number on here too. He said to call if you had any questions.”

She handed him the paper. Harry folded and unfolded it and didn’t know what to say. How was he supposed to feel? The nurse cocked her head and looked at him.

“Your uncle was pretty sick, you know? Boy, he was a tough little guy,” she said.

She told him Uncle H had been admitted three times since Christmas. The last time he had been so fragile that the staff had decided to move him into residential care. But Uncle H had heard them talking about it and rallied. He took off while no one was looking, and they found him trying to hitchhike up 141 in nothing but his hospital gown and a pair of socks.

Harry tried to smile. That sounded like Uncle H.

The nurse asked if she could call anyone for him. He shook his head.

“Look—sit here for as long as you need to. I’ll be right over there if I can help with anything.”

He mumbled a thank-you and stared at the floor. He felt weirdly self-conscious about not crying. Was this a loss? Harry had grown fond of his crazy little uncle over the past two months, though they weren’t what anyone would call close. And yet poor Uncle H had died alone. Worse, his mother would know Harry hadn’t been there. Whether or not