It was a stout bee-- the one hovering over the flower's lavender tongues.
The wings worked so fast he looked like a mere black and yellow cotton ball.
It was 1993.
The second-hand stroller scrapes the jutted cracks.
A pink baby with twiggy arms and marble eyes caresses the patterned roof.
Like it was large-printed Braille.
Lace dances on the backs of my calves as I kneel to the plant.
Fat fingers snatch at the violet, and I squeal to my mother with the gift.
It was once the most indomitable of all the worker bees.
And it died with a mere splinter
His magic sword
In the palm of my hand.