I used to have a beautiful garden.

One day I saw a bee flying lazily and dizzyingly, jolting from flower to flower, it flew as if it wanted to be noticed by me. The bee felt my gaze and flew towards me. Hypnotising me with it hum and dancing around my ears, we created a rhythm.

I stopped caring for my garden.

Most Thursdays at noon, we would meet. The bee brought me honey it made from the flowers I grew in my garden.

Weeds begin to grow.

Sometimes, the bee would fly its stinger close to my heart, never piercing it, but threatening me with its presence. Until one day it inevitably stung me.

I couldn’t tell the difference between a rose and a vine.

Bees sting, for this is what they do.

                                                                                    I lost the path to my garden.

I swatted the bee.  It flew away.

                                                                                    I burned down my garden.

Grief grew around the sting.

                                                                                    Shrubs begin to grow.

One Thursday at noon, I saw the bee lurking in my newly growing garden. I unbuttoned my shirt and exposed my wound.  It flew closer to see, I saw their damaged wing.

                                                                                    Roses are blooming.

Bees are meant to fly. However, sometimes they come back.

                                                                                    I have a new beautiful garden.