"To Be or Not to Be"
That Is a Bee's Question
Five eyes and six legs make you an insect, I whispered to the busy bee.
“Two eyes and two legs make you an ape,” the bee replied and returned to her work.
I never considered eating as work, but the bee was collecting the nectar for her hive, so it was a job, after all. What a jerk one can be; I mean me, just thinking!
“You are exaggerating like most apes,” the bee replied.
I thought that I was thinking, not talking. I am sorry, I said.
“You were thinking, but bees can hear ape thoughts, and especially ape screams, both those within and those for everyone to hear,” the bee replied again.
Do you have a name? I asked.
“We do not live long enough for such a concept. We use our five senses and we fly,” the bee answered.
I learned to fly recently. It may sound mystical but it is simply an outcome of a natural phenomenon we apes call love. It does not require all five senses all the time and flying is infrequent. It all depends on the woman. I fly every day and night because of my Anthi.
“Flying in your mind does not count,” the bee countered.
It counts for apes, and we can move in the air inside machines that can travel faster than the speed of sound. They could but not anymore. Now, only warplanes can reach such speeds as well as various missiles and projectiles. Did I digress?
“Life is a short digression from the normal non-state according to our Queen, though it depends on the season.”
Apes distinguish between four seasons. How many seasons do you consider?
“Bees have five seasons: birth, growth, work, death, and reincarnation.”
It makes sense that your concept of seasons is different. Can you elaborate on your fifth season?
“Our Queen taught us that we live again after we die until one day we become a Queen ourselves.”
What happens to death after you become a Queen?
“It ceases to exist. When a Queen ends her reign, she becomes one with timelessness. I have to work. I am not an ape.”
I am not a bee, I thought to myself, not caring even a bee bit that she will hear it. We have four seasons and my favourite used to be autumn, which some call fall for one reason or another. I always called it French because of the song, Les Feuilles mortes (Dead Leaves). Winter is rarely anyone’s favourite unless one lives in Hawai’i or a similar space. I often call it, Roach-less. Spring is Anthi’s favourite and now it is also mine. I now call it Anthi, especially when she takes off her clothes. It is Anthi every day of the year. I have only one season.
“What about summer, M?” someone asked.
It is unbearable far from the sea and after noon until four or five. I always called it, Too Hot. Hades may also fit it sometimes in the middle of a wildfire.
“I am glad that I am not an ape,” the bee said before giving me her adieu.
Take care! I am only happy to be an ape because of my Anthi, I replied, blowing her a kiss.
To be or not to be is a different concept for bees.
Anthi in the Sky With My Dreams
Anthi in the sky with my dreams of now
Those of yesteryear have flown to be found
I left my nostalgically small lough
For a time-honoured sacred godly ground
Anthi doth fulfill every wish and whim
As I measure her likeness against mine
Her sapphire sea summons me for a swim
Allowing me to follow her straight line
Anthi in my chest's heart as it beats fast
Trying to catch up with any lost time
If nothing good is expected to last
I wonder why for her love I doth climb
Anthi is the summit of my life's aims
The only one for whom I have my claims
About the Creator
Patrick M. Ohana
A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. All my stories (over 2,200 pieces) are/will be available on/via Shakespeare's Shoes.
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