Beekeeping

 

​I’m hunting for honey today. Trudging up the

hill at the Little Italy Mercato Farmer’s Market,

which really means Little Italy Market Farmer’s

Market, and really is more of a collection of food

trucks with fancy fusion foods and long lines, but

now I am sounding cynical, which is a waste.

Because there is no war. Here—though I still

tremble when I feel the rumble of an airplane.

Here—on Cedar Street, just under the flight path,

minutes before landing. I look at the organic carrots

just pulled from the ground and the bouquets of

local flowers. And ignore the crowds. The happy

crowds carrying mimosas and bottles of beer and

fancy drip coffees. I am trying to piggyback, imagine

away, just be here. When I see the honey. Three

different varieties says the woman who explains

her hives are in Temecula and I try to pay attention

to the detailed description when I suddenly remember

a Nova documentary I watched with the kids years

ago about beekeeping. And how the queen always

dies. And why am I thinking about this now?

Here at the Market Farmer’s Market? And why

am I buying honey at all? I don’t want the queen to

die, when I hear her say, in our responsible

beekeeping the queen never dies. And I say with

a tear in my eye, never dies and I’m sure she

thinks I’m crazy because who cries when they are

buying honey, and I whisper thank you and tell her

I’ll take the Wildflower.