Isabella McCall, Columnist • email@example.com
She could hear the low buzz even before she woke up. The droning of the little bugs she cared for permeated into her dreams. When she woke up they permeated the air outside turning it hazy. Through the open windows, she could see them flying from flower to flower in the vines outside the screens. They had become the flying symbols of her life; each bee reflected her life story living amongst them.
Her mornings were generally the same. She got dressed in long sleeves and tucked her pants into her boots even in the heat of summer. After she walked out through her old screen door she donned her thick gloves and veiled hat. All of the clothes she wore were to protect her from the stings of her colonies.
As she neared the white boxes in the grassy field in front of her house, the concentration of flying specks of gold increased. So did the sounds of the orchestra they formed with their conductor-queen. She knew they saw her, watching her to see what she was going to do. Was she going to leave or invade? Just as yesterday and the day before that, she invaded.
Once she stood before the boxes, she lifted the lid to a swarm winging towards her like shrunken fighter jets aiming for the interloper. But she ignored them and continued her job of lifting out combs and placing them in the bowl she carried. Once she had collected the day’s bounty, she replaced the lid and left. Leaving the bees to figure out what had happened.
This was her routine, every day she collected the honey, went home, bottled it and left to go into town to sell the jars at different stores. The money she earned, she put partially towards the bees and partially into her granddaughter’s saving account. She didn’t have much, but that was one thing she had that she knew she could give to her granddaughter; money for the education she never had. All her work for the betterment of her family.