North of Portland, Maine, where the coastline heads due East, the land is streaked with rivers and inlets that look like rain running down the side of a car window they are that many, they are that varied. One such rivulet, the Sheepscot River runs up to Wiscassett and under the Route One bridge that connects the town to Davis Island and eventually the Atlantic Ocean. I am here with family and extended family because Wiscassett is a convenient way station to Boothbay Harbor, Cabbage Island, and a lobster bake that has become a summer tradition. One of the many topics over pizza last night, from Burano’s in Bath, was bee stings, namely how old were you when you received that first pain, the circumstances, the reaction, both physical and emotional. The range, by the way, was anywhere from 4 to 40. There were no anaphylactic shocks at the table, but one case of hives that brought some deliberation of whether it was chemical or psychosomatic in nature. I was the “late to the sting game” party of the group, and told everyone that the worst experience I ever had with a bee sting was one that didn’t actually happen to me, but to my daughter, Amarinda, on her fifth birthday. She and I were at a playground in Hanover, Massachusetts, outside one of my childhood schools, while Sandi decorated the house with streamers and a vinyl Happy Birthday sign that was one of our traditions. The large wooden structure, bridges, towers and turrets which Amee clambored upon was home to at least one bee, and we had barely established the protocol for a first game when she shouted in pain, ran to me, and melted in tears and fears and confusion. Her index finger was bright red and a bit swollen, stung for sure, but not too badly. As a relatively new dad, I was outraged at the entire apian species, pollinators of the world be damned, but mostly I remember my own heartbreak and helplessness and the knowledge that I could not stand in between the world, its inherent pain and near-constant threat and my beautiful child, my children.

This morning, the dawn run did not yield the spectacular sunrise I was hoping to see. Only fog crowded the streets of Wiscasset as the tourists would in a few hours, here for another day of antiques and bookstores and ice cream shops and lobster rolls and shops that sell, amongst the embroidered pillows and candles and greeting cards, something called “lifestyle”. The run had other rewards. The sun was but an eraser smudge of white light, but the waters were calm below the bridge and it seemed that every passing minute a new boat would appear first as a wraith and emerge corporeal within a few strides. The headland to the north was belted with cloud, giving it the appearance of a top half hovering over its base. Runs, walks, or any times of alone are given to reflection and mediation. I thought of the day ahead and the evening last, the slices and salad and company around the back deck table. I thought of bee stings. I thought of children and I thought of parents. Amarinda is nearly six months pregnant, giving birth to her first child at 31, the same age I was at her birth. She will experience the same impotence of parenting and the dichotomy of both wanting your child to be protected from the many stings that will come from people and circumstances far more powerful than a small fuzzy bee and at the same time develop a resiliency and the ability to overcome. Parents can’t have it both ways.

Empathy has more depth than sympathy, or so we’re told. Our ability to support a friend through a divorce is limited when we are happily married. We’re in it, but not of it. It occurred to me this morning, halfway back across the bridge, that parenting is just a lifelong exercise in empathy. Elijah is content or proud or joyous and there’s a commensurate elation that wells inside of me. Amarinda moves from adulthood to parenthood and that transition resonates in my heart, an echo, a deja vu. The bee stings are, gratefully, few and far between these days, really these decades. That brings me peace. The stings will come, but so will the honey.