Beekeeping

Shannon and I share a piece of honeycomb in her kitchen. She has received it from a friend, who owns two small hives.

"As you eat it, the comb will clump together in your mouth. This is what they make beeswax candles from," she tells me, as she takes a chunk of comb in hand and places it on her tongue.

I take a piece in my mouth quickly, with sticky hands. As soon as the complex structure of the comb is broken down by saliva, honey spills into my mouth. It is formless and sweet, swilling into my jaw and overlaying the roof of my mouth. The comb moves together as I chew, balling up on its own.

Shannon has sent some of this home with me, and you are welcome to try some. It's sweeter than other honey you've had before.

Beekeeping fascinates me--the delicate and cruel nature of holding something captive and being gentle with it, because you know that, in great quantities, it can hurt you. Bees are given the illusion of freedom. Here, little bee. This is your home. It's a pretend tree where you will make your honey and feed your larvae. Your queen is here, so you must stay.

The bees drift into sleep and haze when the beekeeper lifts the frame from the hive, smoke filtering through their trachea.

Do we hold bees captive, all of us? When I write about my own sorrow, I hold it away from my body. I live with the illusion that I have overcome all the bees in my box. I pump smoke into my writer's hands until I am numb, hoping one day sweetness will come of this.

The taste of honey depends on which flowers a bee flies to. I imagine wild bees' honey tangier and richer, simply because they choose their own nectar. A beekeeper decides if the honey will be of clovers or apple trees. If I let my sorrow take flight on its own, moving through me at its own pace, will this honey be sweeter? A wild bee flies his own way.