My mother died when I was four years old. People who think dying is the worst thing don’t know a thing about life. Every one of those bees could have descended on me like a flock of angels and stung me till I died, and it wouldn’t have been the worst thing to happen. Honestly, I wasn’t that disturbed by the idea. She was full of crazy ideas that I ignored, but I lay there thinking about his one, wondering if the bees had come with my death in mind. Rosaleen had never had a child herself, so for the last ten years I’d been her pet guinea pig.īees swarm before death. She lived alone in a little house tucked back in the woods, not far from us, and came every day to cook, clean, and be my stand-in mother. She had a big round face and a body that sloped out from her neck like a pup tent, and she was so black that night seemed to seep from her skin. Ray because “Daddy” never fit him – had pulled her out of the peach orchard, where she’d worked as one of his pickers. Rosaleen had worked for us since my mother died. July 1, 1964, I lay in bed, waiting for the bees to show up, thinking of what Rosaleen had said when I told her about their nightly visitations.
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