Eating a bee

Last May a friend gave me a box of chocolates shaped like bees. Later I took a picture of one piece in my palm, as I was considering whether it is ruder to eat the wings, the head, or the body first.

When I texted the photo to her, thanking her, I offered “Beauty is in the eye of the bee holder.”

I imagined her face, petite yet with that tall thoughtful forehead, brown eyes so like my mothers', her hair pulled back, the dark braid a soft ladder down her slender spine, her muted green sweater, the earth-toned scarf hugging her neck, and shining out of it all, the way she smiled, perhaps thinking of the quirky cat-lady nextdoor happy with her chocolate bee.

That smile was my secret plan for her, as I knew there was much in her world not to smile about.

Beauty is in the eye of the bee holder. Silly, I supposed.

Still, isn’t this how we stay connected to our people, to ourselves, tiny anchors, word play and edible insects, keeping each one of us from going a little mad or too sad in the quiet behind our private doors?