Bees Sting

I remember bees. My first time away at camp at age 13 I saw bumbling bees by berry bushes. They looked lazy; slow and full of pollen or whatever else it is that bees eat. The sun was bright but the berry bushes gave dimpled shade and perfumed the sticky air - and I watched inadvertently as I picked berries, one thought echoing through my head. It was something my mother said to me - snakes like to hide near berry bushes.

Walking to work, I passed gladiolas. It was 7am. Bees were busy at work sipping and bumbling along. I walked confidently towards them and then passed them, but my perfume was sweet. It attracted one bee in particular - he was in love. He followed me all the way to the entrance of the subway, careful not to get too close, but close enough to take in the aroma. We parted ways as friends.

Watching the nature channel, I saw a queen bee. I paid little attention to it, I was interested in the male bees. I was interested in how they were drawn to the queen. How all they wanted to do is stick their little bee penis's in the queen. But what happens after the intercourse? The little male bee’s penis breaks off inside the queen and it dies. At least, this is what I remember.

They die, the bees, when they get angry enough to sting, because unlike wasps, bees stingers are barbed and they break off in their victims often exposing their innards. Yet, their angrier cousins, the wasps, get to live. What if people died when they were angry enough to hurt others. What if people's innards were exposed once they shot or stabbed or raped?

What have I learned from the life of a bee? I have learned to enjoy the aroma of the roses, but to get the work done. I have learned to love and let go when necessary. I have learned that love can be deadly. I have learned that anger can kill us both, because this is what happens when bees sting.

Tomorrow, Laughing Is The Cure. . .