A Be(e) Tragedy

One dream unfolded into another. 

My family and I were riding bikes through a series of train cars—one after another. There, people were eating and inquisitive wait staff looked on as we passed by—

May I help you?

No, thanks. We’re doing just fine.

We knew where we were headed without knowing why.

Finally, we emerged into a small courtyard of tidy grass. I looked to the left, and I saw my father sitting at a table.  He seemed immersed in his work as he had always been, his presence was steady—not turning. Yet, I knew he kept a watchful eye. 

And then, I noticed the stacked bee boxes. A dread set in as I realized the elapsed time since we had come to call upon them. We cracked the lid and saw that the frames sat submerged in water. Lifeless bees floated at the surface. A pang of pure ache overwhelmed me as I frantically assessed the damage and began reluctantly to lift a frame. A clouded sheen of stagnant water rippled. 

Suddenly, a small buzzing whirl took flight and landed a few feet away on the vined wall. 

There, a pair of veiled beekeepers stood waiting. 

She smiled sweetly as we locked eyes. 

He spoke as I looked up and marveled at the resurrecting life—We better get busy capturing this swarm.

Every bit of my core hummed with sorrow. We’ve had a bee tragedy—I uttered, weakly. 

Knowingly, he replied—Bees do that sometimes.  

Shaken—deeply, I awoke—just before dawn.