And the golden bees / were making white combs / and sweet honey / from my old failures.” Antonio Machado —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL Georgia Bees buzzed and flitted around my head. I counted each one as I’d done as a child, lulling me into a sweet space where I couldn’t see my mother’s tortured face or hear my sister’s bitter and accusatory words. Or remember the person I had once been, and who I was afraid still lurked inside of me. Without my grandfather and the hives that had been moved to the swamp, the apiary seemed more than just diminished, like a child labeled with a failure to thrive. I couldn’t help but think this change was irreversible, somehow permanent. A turn of the tide that could not be pulled back. At the base of the bee box in front of me, a bee—larger than most—lingered on the platform in front of the exit. Making sure it was clear my intent wasn’t to block the bees from entering or leaving the hive, I leaned in from the side and scooped up the bee, cupping it inside my closed palms.
