The Swat

I grabbed a notebook sitting beside me and swatted at the bee. My aim was true.

It had been one week since I brought two new colonies to the corner of our yard under a drooping hackberry tree, and I glowed with self-satisfaction. I convinced myself they had found the promised land, and within a month, honey would overflow the hive boxes in sticky golden rivulets while thousands of bees happily circled the yard in giddy figure eights.

During the week, I shared the experience of handling bees with anyone who said they liked honey. The conversations were short, quickly exhausting my growing knowledge. I spilled facts about the queen, drones, and workers with a rapt enthusiasm that would make an entomologist envious. I was a winsome apologist for backyard beekeeping, making friends blush with my sense of wonder. With this idyllic reverie swirling through my head, I suited up to inspect the hives.

I carefully opened each hive box. The first showed no signs of stress. There were eggs, larvae, and pupae—all in healthy stages of growth. There was a spreading layer of brood and even capped honey in the corner of one frame.

My gentle brushes became more direct. She continued to buzz. It seemed to me she was growing more irritated and aggressive. I was, too.

I opened the lid of the second hive box and began the inspection. This colony was growing faster. The queen was passionately productive. I had a peculiar inclination to take credit for the hard work of the hive. Perhaps, my choice of a high-tech hive box or the location I chose for the bees caused the productive explosion that other beekeepers longed to experience. Crazy ideas breed in novice brains.

I closed the hives and walked back to the house with a swagger.

Two days later, I sat outside under a pool umbrella. Fresh spring green smells surged by on the warm breeze. Birdsong from robins and mockingbirds grew loud, then quieted in waves of rolling sound. I imagined anyone sitting inside would grow jealous with each warble.

Upsetting the pastoral idyll, a single bee, one of my bees, buzzed around my ears and face, tentatively landing on my neck. I brushed the bee aside gently, encouraging her to go collect pollen. She was unabated in her curiosity. My gentle brushes became more direct. She continued to buzz. It seemed to me she was growing more irritated and aggressive. I was, too.

I grabbed a notebook sitting beside me and swatted at the bee. My aim was true. I heard what once would have been a satisfying hollow ping when I made contact. I watched the bee fly away in an arc, swing in a wide loop, then make a literal beeline back to me.

I scraped the stinger from my forehead and, surprised one of my bees would sting me, went inside without a word.