Sting

My daughter steps on a bee when she’s out in the garden, playing. The skin swells red around the sting, and she comes in to me, crying. I put her small foot to my lips, try to suck out the hurt, but she wriggles, can’t stay still, pulls away. She’s crying and I don’t know what to do.

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When I close my eyes, I hear a buzzing that isn’t there. It’s the buzzing that was delivered to me the day my daughter was born, a buzzing that hasn’t left since. Sometimes it’s so loud, it drowns out my own thoughts. Sometimes, it drowns out my daughter’s voice.

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My lips fail to comfort, so we fill a bowl of water, cool from the tap. My daughter lets me bathe her foot. It’s as if, when underwater, my fingers and her wound aren’t attached to our bodies. Underwater, my fingers soothe. But when I draw them out, my daughter won't let me touch her until I’ve dried my hands.

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I can’t imagine how I thought about bees before I became a mother. I can’t imagine how I got here from there. I can’t imagine how such small wings can create such a penetrating noise.

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The dinner will not make itself. My daughter pads around me as I slice open the tomatoes. She will not go out in the garden again today. She presses her sticky body close to mine.

Sting

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If one listens hard enough, even tomatoes buzz.

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My daughter peers from the window as I go out to pinch off a sprig of rosemary to roast with the vegetables. The bush is alive with bees. It doesn’t look like a plant, but like a monster with many heads. A child-sized monster. A child-eating monster. The sound of the stem snapping startles me and I jump. I look to the window, hoping my daughter hasn’t seen.

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My rosemary started as a cutting, a new shoot culled from the mother plant. My mother’s plant. I remember her bringing it to me, the softness of her hands as she placed the sprig in mine. We put it in a bowl of water, until it grew roots of its own.

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On my way back to the house, I pass the remains of the bee. It lies on the ground, crushed.

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At night, when my daughter is on the edge of sleep, I’ll take the tweezers and extract anything that remains, anything I can see. I will hold her foot tenderly and will look for roots.

Sting

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At night, I’ll dream of feet, many of them, sounding. I won’t see them, I’ll just feel them, feel the way they make the earth’s wings vibrate. I’ll feel them filling my ears, and know that something is coming, but not what it is or whether or not to be afraid. It’s the not knowing that will do me in. It’s the not knowing that will sting the most.