Writing Sample: But for a Little While…

There was a love/hate relationship with those gloves. She asked herself, “why did I buy them white and red…? They will turn black soon. GUH…” She wasn’t wrong. Gardening has a way of turning everything one touches a green/brown color, with bits of Earth in the crevices of the leather. But she didn’t care, they were thorn proof. Sometimes, she would take off a glove, just to feel the cool grit of the ground she would ignore most of the year, taking a clump of soil in her hand to smell that distinct scent. It was finally time to turn the Earth of deep Fall and a long cold Winter, into something fertile, something that would produce fruit and flower.

The lawn was first on the list. She was always quite thoughtful of neighbors, so she usually reached for the push mower on a quiet Sunday morning. But there would always be this tiny 1’ x 1’ patch she would dread, where “they” lived. Last time she counted, there were six. She thought to herself, “maybe 3, maybe 6” - but in any case, they terrified her. They came, as the months of the year crept toward the hot summer night.

She hurriedly mowed over that section of bees, muttering a terrified prayer not to be stung – and yet also praying that they would not be victim to the blades. She had never been stung, but she always assumed the worst, like in films when people would get stung once and would die, almost where they stood. She didn’t mind the thought of dying, but it disturbed her a bit to think that she would die in such a mundane manner… “stung by a bee… wow… sad… What’s for lunch?”

They buzzed and dashed about. A few times, as she would walk and bend, she saw them coming up to the corner of her eye, as the sweat dripped from under her hat. She would scream, “no, a bee!!!! And would bob and weave away. A grown woman would turn 5, in an instant, her voice small, her core would quiver in fear, as she fled. Then the bee would disappear, back to his little cave with his friends, he would go. The bobbing and weaving, the loud fleeing from a bee 1/1000th her size, was probably the subject of some comical YouTube video somewhere, recorded by a neighbor who would proceed to howl in laughter.

As the season progressed, asters, zinnias, roses, echinacea, peonies, hydrangeas, phlox and Nippon daisies bloomed, and fell. But the bees were still buzzing about, and she sincerely thought that they found excitement in harassing her. They would just find her, wherever she was, in her garden.

One day, she found one on a Nippon daisy. He was moving slowly, and she thought that he might have been tired from running around on his adventures. It was late Summer, almost Fall, and she felt that perhaps he was tired of droning about. After her tasks, she went about her week, and when she returned the next week, she saw 2 more… each on their own daisy. She thought, “how nice, they finally got out of their caves to hang out on some flowers…” The week after… 6 bees… on 6 daisies. With their little antennas still rotating, but only a bit slower. Less animated. She was instantly hit with a sadness she couldn’t contain: the tiny creatures that she bobbed and weaved away from all summer… were dying. All 6, in a row, as a family. Each in their own space, but not far from the other. She moved in measured steps, taking a long look, at a tiny creature, she knew couldn’t hurt her anymore.

A pity befell her, but as a gardener, she knew that this was the cycle of life in a garden – and that someday, someone may look upon her with pity when her time came to pass, and all too easily forget the spirit that filled her bones, not so long ago. In noting the cold that bit the tips of her fingers in the Fall, she brusquely collected the leaves that had already begun to fall, and took one last look at the daisies that held their little bodies. And gave them thanks – for the extra dancing they were responsible for, and for not stinging her. As for the next generation, all she thought she could muster to do, was to keep praying.

Word to the wise: Water the bees, please…