Devonne Brown

Time to Tell the Bees

“You’ve got to tell the bees,” said Luke. “When the beekeeper dies, someone has to tell the bees so they know someone else is coming. They were a part of her family, like the cat and dog. They’ll go crazy if you don’t tell them. It’s only polite.” 

“Really? Your favorite aunt dies and all you can think of, being polite to bees?” his mother, Kay, was all over him. Kay was all fashion and garden club, not real gardening and certainly not beekeeping. It was messy and dirty and she didn’t want any part of it.

“Mom.” Luke knew his aunt Lucille better than anyone. He watched the sapling sway by the hive. A storm was coming. All the leaves lifted and showed their shiny side with a quiet wind that swirled around the beehive on the lower terrace of her yard. Lucille had kept bees for years. He’d sketched the label she used on the jars she filled before she sold honey. “Lucy’s Beehive,” was her label. 

He couldn’t help but reminisce, “Mom, remember when I was five and she brought two water guns, the size of Uzis? One for me and one for her. We chased each other all over the beach. That was the best battle I ever won. She was intense about everything.”

“Go ahead, then, but don’t get stung. She’d probably laugh at you if you did,” said his mom, Lucille’s sister. She was having a hard time. Losing her sister was harder than she thought it was going to be. Lucille had been a pain in the ass and never failed to embarrass her. The last time Lucille visited she’d brought a poster sized sketchbook and pastels, colored chalk that got on everything. Kay made her keep that stuff on the porch. Kay didn’t care how gorgeous the sunsets Lucille painted with her broken bits of chalk were, she had a white couch.

When Luke came to visit her on a whim ten years ago, he fell in love with her all over again. Lucille talked with wonder in her voice and sparkles in her eyes, just like she did when she told him glitter was the kind of magic that made you smile. She had just set up her hive and glowed with excitement. “I remember you were so good at art. Here, make me a logo,” she’d told him and he tried his best for her. It was an awful sketch, but she was proud of it. He grinned from ear to ear when she sent a jar of honey with his label on it. 

The wind picked up. He had to tell them now before the rain began and walked around the fence to the hive. 

Public speaking had never been his bailiwick. Speaking to them gave him hives like he’d never had before. What if they swarmed and attacked? Maybe they were like the snakes in the churches he’d heard about. If you have faith, they won’t sting. What do you tell the bees when their queen is gone? 

Luke stood in front of the hive and felt stupid. He’d found her beekeeper’s helmet and net in the laundry room. There was no point in taking chances. Kay told him he looked ridiculous but watched him from the kitchen window and kind of wished now she’d gone with him. This was the only funeral Lucille would have.  

Luke found solace in the familiar buzzing of the bees that inhabited his aunt’s garden. Luke took a deep breath and approached the hive. He didn’t want his mom to see tears streaming down his face, he softly whispered the news to the diligent workers, recounting the memories he cherished with his aunt, the laughter shared, and the wisdom imparted.

As if in response, the bees momentarily ceased their buzzing, their wings stilling in the warm evening air. It was as if they understood the immense loss Luke felt, offering their silent support in his mourning. As he whispered to the bees, he knew that Lucille’s spirit lived on, intertwined the the gentle hum of the hive and the falling rain.

In garden bliss, where saplings gently sway,
I whisper secrets to the bees, so they may stay.