We opened the hives
to see what winter had done.
Five colonies—
though not all of them
were truly whole.
Three queens among them.
Too much division.
Too little strength.
So we consolidated.
That is the word beekeepers use
when survival matters more
than appearances.
Funny thing about bees—
they always find the weak seam
in a glove.
Every time.
Doesn’t matter how protected
you think you are.
If there is a thin place,
they will discover it.
And once they do,
boy howdy,
they let you know.
My hand swelled up hard enough
to remind me
that pain travels fast
when it finds an opening.
A little necrotic in one spot.
Healing already.
Nature is honest that way.
The hive does not hate you.
The bee is not angry.
The sting is not personal.
It is simply truth
arriving sharply.
Maybe people are not so different.
Most of us spend years
patching visible holes
while forgetting the quiet seams.
Then life finds one.
A loss.
A loneliness.
A fear.
A memory.
A longing we thought
we had covered better.
And suddenly the swelling starts.
Still—
healing starts too.
That may be the deeper mercy in it.
Not that we avoid the sting.
But that the body,
the spirit,
and maybe even the soul,
still remember how to mend.
— The Humble Traveler