Rosaleen had worked for us since my mother died. July 1, 1964, I lay in bed, waiting for the bees to show up, thinking of what Rosaleen had said when I told her about their nightly visitations. Right now it's enough to say that despite everything that happened that summer, I remain tender toward the bees. I know it is presumptuous to compare my small life to hers, but I have reason to believe she wouldn't mind I will get to that. I want to say they showed up like the angel Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary, setting events in motion I could never have guessed. Looking back on it now, I want to say the bees were sent to me. The bees came the summer of 1964, the summer I turned fourteen and my life went spinning off into a whole new orbit, and I mean whole new orbit. The way those bees flew, not even looking for a flower, just flying for the feel of the wind, split my heart down its seam.ĭuring the day I heard them tunneling through the walls of my bedroom, sounding like a radio tuned to static in the next room, and I imagined them in there turning the walls into honeycombs, with honey seeping out for me to taste. I watched their wings shining like bits of chrome in the dark and felt the longing build in my chest. At night I would lie in bed and watch the show, how bees squeezed through the cracks of my bedroom wall and flew circles around the room, making that propeller sound, a high-pitched zzzzzz that hummed along my skin.

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