I.
It starts with a bee.
Apis mellifera,
a fuzzy, black and yellow insect
that’s smaller than my big toe.
The little bee chooses a flower,
seduced by pretty pink petals and intoxicating fragrances.
She lands on the bud and starts collecting the nectar
as pollen sticks to the hairs on her body.
Once she finishes with the first flower,
she moves on to another,
repeating the process and pollinating along the way.
After her stomach is full of nectar,
she bumbles back home to the hive.
The fluid then gets passed around from bee to bee,
almost as if the insects are making a kissing chain,
until the processed liquid is finally deposited
into a honeycomb cell.
Here, the bees attentively fan the honeycomb,
beating their iridescent wings.
Then it’s done.
Golden.
Sweet.
Sticky.
Honey.
II.
My first grade teacher always called me honey.
Everything about her was warm and sweet.
Her voice was soft
with a lullaby-like cadence.
She had light blonde hair,
brown eyes,
and a smattering of freckles
sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.
Her favorite article of clothing was a yellow cardigan.
When I was sick on the last day of school before winter break
and threw up in the middle of our Christmas party,
she was the one who stroked my back
as I cried over a trash can
and assured me that,
“Everything’s going to be okay, honey.”
III.
It can keep forever,
forgotten on the back of the shelf
in the cupboard you never open.
Honey is embalming.
Honey is immortal.
Honey is a product of life.
I like to put it in my tea.
I watch it creep from the bottom of the bottle
to the bright yellow spout
where it drizzles out
in one long, suspended teardrop.
It stretches from the cap of the bottle
all the way down to the steamy water.
Then, once it hits the tea,
it turns into a ribbon,
swirling and folding in the water,
then slowly dissolves,
making everything a little bit murky.
Honey transforms things.
It takes something bitter
and turns it into something
sweet.
