We have a ritual, Saint Valentine and me.
Every year, on February 14th, he goes out to the allotment to check on his bees. Then he’ll drop into mine for a brew.
He brings a pot of last summer’s honey, and we have it spread thick on bread.
“No card this year?” he asks.
“No,” I say. I think of Stephen. Can’t stop myself.
“Good,” he says. “He was a lying sod.”
“Still… kinda miss him… today…”
“Don’t. Today’s about doing what you love. Maybe people. Maybe bees. I always preferred bees.”
The honey smells like flowers, and tastes better.
This one is dedicated to the patron saint of beekeeping. Originally I was going to end with a joke, but I ended up… not.