I put on rain-boots and a dress Jackie Kennedy could have worn in between the assassination of her husband in 1963 and the year 1968. I left the House hoping to run into Cookie in the stairwell. In the garden. By the pier. In the street. By the square. At the old library.
Instead, I ran into the piccolo man.
“I thought you left.”
“I never found a way.”
I didn't ask what he did with the 60 dollars. Instead:
“What about the honey bees? You said the honey bees are the way.”
