Tuesday, May 6, 2014


The California morning sun blazed on my shoulders as I sipped my hot green tea in my office.

My office, which is actually my back porch, is my special place in the morning. My cat arrives to the office before I do, and sits on her chair like a time clock, alerting and reminding me that the sun will only be in the right position from 8:00 am to 9:30 am, and I'd better hurry and punch in if I want enjoy this part of the morning. This is the time we both like. She yawns and settles into the chair, the sun covering her like a blanket as she curls into a little black ball; and I sit opposite her while the sun massages my shoulders and rubs my temples and sometimes even holds my hand while I contemplate life, bills, freelancing, family, more bills, global warming and other things.

I click, point and skim through the headlines of the day on my lap top; I should be spending my time otherwise.

I was reading of other's triumphs and trials and bizarro-ness all while purposefully avoiding my own life when I heard a buzzing above my head. My porch is enclosed by a clear plastic covering with grooves, which if painted blue, might resemble the type of rippled waves of the ocean caused by a passing motor boat that are choppy and tiny by the time they reach your feet. There, in one of the plastic grooves was a honey bee. It was flitting about; its fuzzy black and yellow body hopping from one buzzing wing to another as though it were on a hot griddle. I rose, and peering under it through the plastic roof, I could see its tiny feelers frantically waving up and down in distress.

I could tell it was dying. I've skimmed enough headlines to know.

I felt helpless as its legs slowly started to curl underneath itself in that awkward triangular way. I reached up to gingerly touch the bee through the hard plastic, hoping I was offering some sort of comfort as its head dipped forward into a ball.

I held my grandma's hand as she lay dying in the hospital of ovarian cancer. I wasn't there for her final breath, but I was there while she withered away with each passing breath that eventually lead her to the final one.

The bee stopped moving so quickly. The buzzing grew quiet. I kept my fingers there. Hoping. But like the precious time with grandma, where I hoped something else would happen other than what was inevitable and beyond my control, it expired.


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