The bees are back. It is spring, after all, so that’s not surprising. Even though it had started, it doesn’t feel real just yet, like an intense semi-forgotten dream of two nights ago. The bees are back and buzzing and birds are chirping and I suppose I need to use that as proof that I’m back as well. The plum tree, beyond my open window, that was there before I was born, began blooming a couple of days ago even though the winter chill had still hung in the air, reminding and soothing. The smell may be familiar, but the impressions are not. I’ve been stuck for so long inside my own head I forgot about the existing outside. It’s not dark anymore, I’ve found…. Yet, somehow, the presence of the lights terrifies me more than its absence. Somehow, the overthinking, rushing paranoia is stronger than object permanence. What I can’t see, can’t hurt me.
The bees are back and crawling over my goose bumped skin. I closed my eyes not to flinch and potentially aggravate them. I don’t want to be stung again. They’re surprisingly delicate. Ghost, feather touches. I stay still the best I can and hold my breath. I breathe, therefore I am? The cold swirls around me like a closing embrace. The bees try to squirm into my mouth. I press my lips into a tight line. I tried to imagine they were your fingers touching me, but the sensations are all wrong. You try to hide it but you have too much tension within, to be this unselfish with your presence. That’s quite alright in my opinion, but I know you’d disagree. You always liked to see yourself as the malleable one between the two of us. The soft one, the crybaby. I’m afraid I know you just a little too well.
I can feel little insect legs over my eyelids. They seem almost curious - as if exploring my body. I can sense thin wings tangling in my hair. The ends tingling the back of my neck. My hair is getting too long and I should have gone to cut it by now, even if that meant complaints and moans about my perceived femininity and therefore beauty.
The bees started to leave one by one, seemingly satisfied with their inspection, except for a single bee that stuck herself to me and hasn’t yet moved. I gotten used to the sensation enough to dare to open my eyes a little. The glare blinded me slightly and I winced in pain. It was easy to withstand considering I’ve been bracing myself for it for six months. I can see the bee clinging. It looks dead, like scar tissue. She joined the others that stuck around over the years. Little souvenirs I unwillingly kept. I promised myself I would shake them off one day – Hopefully I hadn’t lied again.
I can see the beautiful, delicate pink blossoms of the plum tree just outside my window. The bees began their duties again, jumping from flower to flower. The light seems warm and I can only question why I was so terrified of it in the first place. However, not for long. I cannot pretend not to remember the full scope of the cycle. The panic will come back and I will be stuck with my eyes closed in the cold.
For now though, I relax. The light feels like a warm welcome, and as I look onto the bees and flowers, I have to trust that I am back. I take a breath, stand up, and go into the spring. I’m glad to be home.
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