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It was a fact of life, but if I brought it up, people would suddenly get interested in their hangnails and cuticles, or else distant places in the sky, and seem not to hear me. My mother died when I was four years old. People who think dying is the worst thing don't know a thing about life. Every one of those bees could have descended on me like a flock of angels and stung me till I died, and it wouldn't have been the worst thing to happen. Honestly, I wasn't that disturbed by the idea.
#SECRET OF THE WINGS PART 1 FULL#
She was full of crazy ideas that I ignored, but I lay there thinking about his one, wondering if the bees had come with my death in mind.
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Rosaleen had never had a child herself, so for the last ten years I'd been her pet guinea pig.īees swarm before death. She lived alone in a little house tucked back in the woods, not far from us, and came every day to cook, clean, and be my stand-in mother. She had a big round face and a body that sloped out from her neck like a pup tent, and she was so black that night seemed to seep from her skin. Ray because "Daddy" never fit him - had pulled her out of the peach orchard, where she'd worked as one of his pickers. Rosaleen had worked for us since my mother died. July 1, 1964, I lay in bed, waiting for the bees to show up, thinking of what Rosaleen had said when I told her about their nightly visitations. Right now it's enough to say that despite everything that happened that summer, I remain tender toward the bees. I know it is presumptuous to compare my small life to hers, but I have reason to believe she wouldn't mind I will get to that. I want to say they showed up like the angle Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary, setting events in motion I could never have guessed. Looking back on it now, I want to say the bees were sent to me. The bees came the summer of 1964, the summer I turned fourteen and my life went spinning off into a whole new orbit, and I mean whole new orbit. The way those bees flew, not even looking for a flower, just flying for the feel of the wind, split my heart down its seam.ĭuring the day I heard them tunneling through the walls of my bedroom, sounding like a radio tuned to static in the next room, and I imagined them in there turning the walls into honeycombs, with honey seeping out for me to taste. I watched their wings shining like bits of chrome in the dark and felt the longing build in my chest. At night I would lie in bed and watch the show, how bees squeezed through the cracks of my bedroom wall and flew circles around the room, making that propeller sound, a high-pitched zzzzzz that hummed along my skin.