The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

by John Koenig

To the honeybees, summer never ends. They live for a few months at most, barely long enough to feel the seasons change. They have no need to remind each other to put themselves out there, gathering their rosebuds while they may. You can hear them buzzing deep in their hives, trading bits of sweetness they’ve gathered out in the world. How easily they pass the nectar back and forth between their bodies, freely mixing it all together as if none of it made a difference, knowing they’ll never live long enough to taste it all. And yet, their honey is the one thing that never expires, that never loses its sweetness. Maybe that buzzing sound is just another way of saying, We are here. From Tír na nÓg, the land of everlasting youth in Irish folklore + hubris, excessive pride or arrogance, especially toward a god. “Our songs will all be silenced,” said Orson Welles, “but what of it? Go on singing.” Pronounced “teer-uhs.”