Bee
“A window, a barrier, a lesson in futility and grace.”
There must be a bee-sized crack where the bedroom window seal has dried and shrunk — just enough for a bee, pressing itself against the glass, to crawl through to the wrong side. Now it cannot escape. Its wings beat furiously as it pushes itself against the barrier it can feel but not understand.
It can see the world beyond the hard, opaque surface — perhaps it even remembers the smells and sounds of that world — but those memories fade with each futile flap. The bee drops to the windowsill, gathers strength, and rises again, pressing against the cold pane before falling once more.
El knows there is no rescuing the creature. The rubber seal holds fast; the window will not yield. She knows the bee will die, though it might take time. She considers finding the insect spray — or perhaps ending it quickly with a rolled-up newspaper — but she can do neither.
She leaves the room. She thinks of how she is like the bee — how she, too, has crawled into this limiting space she calls her life. She knows there is a world beyond, full of smells, sounds, sensations, and she longs to immerse herself in all three. But there is a barrier, invisible and unyielding. She presses against it, again and again — with her anger, her despair — and she wonders how much longer she can keep her wings beating.
She returns to the bedroom. The buzzing has stopped. El gathers the dead bee into a tissue, carries it outside, and lays it on the soil of a pot plant near her door.
She has no words to say over it; she simply stands and wonders.
