TORONTO
Whenever my father upset my mother, I would always go to Toronto, where there was an old worn bed with a metal frame placed on top of beehives, and by its headboard, a bookshelf that practically reached the sky, filled with countless books. In Toronto, I would sit on the biggest mushroom that had grown between the floorboards and look at the waves of the three long hairs that fell from my grandpa’s bald head, which shivered from the hot steam rising from the cup of tea in his hand. “Now we will drink tea and eat lokhum together,” my grandfather would say, patting my head. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.” “I don’t want to, Grandpa. Tell me about your bees,” I would say. “In Toronto, the bees know how to talk like people. They can also sing, recite poems, they help and heal e
